


War + Hell

by Desired_Misery



Series: Flourish in Blood, Deal in Death [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, the winter soldier - Fandom
Genre: Angst, C-PTSD, Chronic Pain, Dissociative Identity Disorder, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Just read the preface notes to see what's going on, M/M, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Self-Harm, Service Dogs, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unreliable Narrator, Updates will take a while sorry :(, fibromyalgia, happy things in this too
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-16
Updated: 2017-05-26
Packaged: 2018-04-14 22:36:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 77,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4582734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Desired_Misery/pseuds/Desired_Misery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Bucky’s own body is eating away at itself in a vicious cycle of trying to find enough energy to heal and recover from the self-inflicted damage. It's like cutting wood from a tree, using that wood to keep the tree from collapsing, then not having the foresight to move out of the way during the inevitable fall.</p><p>Steve’s trying to help, but just when he thinks he finds a solid surface, it’s all wood rot." </p><p>-</p><p>A multi-POV fic focused on the intricacies of trauma, trauma recovery, the struggle of helping someone who doesn't want to be helped, drugs as a source of self-medication, the surfacing of Bucky’s trauma into separate identities that hopefully does not insult or misrepresent those with Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID, previously known as Multiple Personality Disorder) or PTSD (Post-traumatic Stress Disorder), and the high-stress relationship between a caregiver and the loved one.</p><p>01/01/2018: I'll write the next chapter after I finish my current Fantastic Beasts fic! I watched TWS again and suddenly I wanted to write this damn epic again :). I love this fic, just needed a long break for my health and mind to get settled.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "Monster You Made" by Pop Evil

**Author's Note:**

  * For [refusals](https://archiveofourown.org/users/refusals/gifts).
  * Inspired by [United States v. Barnes, 617 F. Supp. 2d 143 (D.D.C. 2015)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2304905) by [fallingvoices](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallingvoices/pseuds/fallingvoices), [radialarch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/radialarch/pseuds/radialarch). 
  * Inspired by [lilies with full hands](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1614746) by [refusals](https://archiveofourown.org/users/refusals/pseuds/refusals). 



> Songs, brands, copyright characters are not mine; I am humbly using them to write this fic :)

 Made by the amazing Skadegladje! Thank you so much!

 

_“Take a good look at me now,_

_Do you still recognize me?_

_Am I so different inside?_

_The world is trying to change me,”_

\-- --- --

They keep asking him questions, ones he doesn’t know the answers to. They show him pictures and videos of things he did, but doesn’t remember doing.

“You don’t remember killing Tracey-”

_“No!”_

All guns are on him because he shifted in his seat. His outburst surprised himself, too. But he doesn’t stop.

“No, I don’t remember. I don’t remember any of this.”

The expression on the prosecutor’s faces causes him to bristle and he bites back a growl so it just rumbles in his chest. The scorn in the man’s eyes flickers into something close to fear.

(Good. As he should be.)

He settles back and takes a deep breath. Tries to calm down and relax. He releases his grip on the arms of the chair and drops his head. He’s not a threat.

\-- --- --

“It’s the end of the prosecutor’s case against the infamous Winter Soldier and tomorrow, we’re going to see exactly what the defense has been working for these past two years.”

“The public is already riled up and I’m sure this trial is going to result in more violence before it’s over. Stay safe, everyone, and don’t interfere with the trial.”

\-- --- --

James Barnes screams in agony as doctors saw off the rest of his shattered arm without putting him under.

The video isn’t great quality and there is no audio, but in it Sgt. James Barnes is strapped to an operating table. Blood pools on the surface and drips on the floor as he struggles and howls and cries. The doctors moving around the table do not concern themselves with his pain. When the doctor cuts deeper into his arm, he jerks once and slumps against the table, unconscious.

\-- --- --

[ Exhibit # 49

_Sgt. James Buchanan Barnes, henceforth referred to as ‘Subject”,was found close to death in the gorge from [redacted]. The fall from the train resulted in his left arm completely shattered and irreplaceable, even with the healing factor of the serum. The Subject’s eyes did not respond to light, as the damage to his skull and brain is significant. X-rays prove what was suspected: 11 broken ribs and 7 fractured, and multiple fractures along his spine. Broken legs and crushed pelvis both prevented the Subject from moving from where he landed. He remained there for two days, and was unconscious when he was found in a shallow stream by Soviet soldiers. The Subject still lives, even though it has been six days since he was found. Dr. Zola’s serum is more successful than previously believed. Subject has yet to become lucid enough to speak._

(Perhaps the river quickly froze his damaged tissue, allowing the Subject to survive. He had to be warmed up, for most of his lower half and his back was half frozen from the water. Thankfully, the water pushed him to to a shallow bank and he didn't drown.) ]

\-- --- --

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

> OH MY GOD I’M GOING TO BE SICK
> 
> HOW COULD THEY DO THIS TO SOMEONE?!?!
> 
> #oh my god #fuck fuck fuck #WS Trial #SaveBuckyBarnes

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

> there is no fucking way they can charge him no way
> 
> #cap looks like he’s about the breakdown #I’m close to breaking down tbh #and Bucky hasn’t even flinched once yet #he’s too quiet #WS Trial

\-- --- --

[ Exhibit #50

 _Subject broke it’s own wrist when it awoke trying to free itself from the restraints. (Gen. Karpov was clear in his instructions on how to treat the Subject. Dehumanizing it would be the fasted way to ensure proper cooperation and behavior.) Screamed itself hoarse and threatened the doctors until it was gagged. IV in its arm had to be replaced to prevent infection. As much as the Subject struggles, it is still very weak and in significant pain. Surgeries are scheduled later today to try to salvage what muscles and bones could be saved from the fall. [Redacted] has been planning a high-tech prosthetic to replace the Subject’s left arm. He was unconcerned with the idea of permanent damage. Doctors [Redacted] and [Redacted] expressed concern over the Subject’s shattered ribs and punctured lungs. If the Subject were to get sick now, with this many injuries, it would most likely be fatal._ ]

\-- --- --

Barnes’s hand twitches on the table, eyes half open and unfocused on the ceiling. A scalpel opens up his chest and then follows the line of his sternum down to his navel. Blood oozes down the cuts and the doctor carefully separates his skin from muscle and slivers of bone. He jerks weakly against the leather holding him down, mouth open in a moan. Another doctor uses the opportunity to force a tube down his throat and Barnes passes out again, mercifully.

\-- --- --

[ Exhibit #53

 _The Soldier has to be sedated if any type of medical personnel are to be around it. The panic attacks are not isolated to doctors, but extends to anyone trying to get something as simple as blood pressure. It is possible that the Soldier fears doctors due to numbers of operations and punishments relating to medical treatment._ ]

\-- --- --

Nurse in critical condition for trying to treat TWS. More here.

\-- --- --

A vicious kick knocks him flat. He’s sobbing, half curled in on himself, his arm covering his head. Barnes arches in agony when another man steps on his already broken leg. Then, as he screams, a baton cracks across his face with enough force to break his nose. Barnes gets pinned to the floor and a needle jammed in his neck.

\-- --- --

[ Exhibit #86

_Proper dosage for diazepam is 13.5 mg every half hour for reducing anxiety, 27-35 mg/30 minutes for muscle relaxant/seizure preventative ( Note: this dosage is necessary during wipes otherwise the Soldier panics prior and during to the procedure and will suffer from seizures that may cause unwanted brain and/or tissue damage), and 54-60 mg for sedation (no more than 150 mg in a day unless absolutely necessary. Restraints or another paralytic should be used for sedation needed longer than 3 hours- this causes tolerance, which is to be avoided as much as possible). The Soldier’s metabolism burns through benzodiazepines 5 times faster than the average person, meaning each dose must factor in the serum as well as its developing tolerance._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

> _Anxiety reducer: 0.104 mg/kg every .5 hr_
> 
> _Muscle relaxant: 0.208 mg/kg every .5 hr_
> 
> _Sedation: 0.416 mg/kg every .5 hr_ ]

\-- --- --

"What the hell, Natasha?"

The file in his hands is too much. He has to put it down. Or burn it. Yeah, burning it would be nice. Something exceedingly violent to match the wave growing inside.

"Tony, please. It wasn't his fault! He’s going to be torn to pieces over this-”

“As he should be. He killed my parents!” His voice rises until it breaks and Tony doesn’t realize he’s tearing up until he swipes a hand over his face. “That fucking bastard killed so many people-”

_“Damn it, Stark!”_

Her snarl of anger stuns him into silence. Tony blinks. She is actually crying, too.

She recomposes herself with a rake of her fingers through her short , red hair. “All I’m asking you to do is to give him another chance, another chance like you got after Afghanistan. The same chance I was offered when I was brought in by Clint.”

He doesn’t answer yet, but fiddles with the edge of the file and worries a new crease into the old manilla folder.

“Tony.”

Natasha is begging him.

“Okay, okay. I- I’ll wait until the trial-”

And then she wraps him in a hug. It’s so unexpected Tony doesn’t relax until he realizes she’s sniffling into his shirt collar. He also comes to the understanding that the hug is for her, not him. So he hugs her back, carefully, because she still could rip him apart balls to throat.

“Um…” Are you okay? Need anything? A new weapon, perhaps? Did Steve put you up to this? He doesn’t know what to ask first. Tony decides to let her talk first because of that.

“You might not want to be at the trial.”

Natasha seems to understand that he’s as confused as he sounds, because she mutters something into his shirt.

“They tortured him, you know.”

Tony freezes, his brain-unhelpfully- snapping back to his scattered memories of a cool, dark cave-

“Seventy years. They made me watch, once. I was seventeen and convinced we could escape.”

She pulls back out of his embrace, wiping her eyes. Her mouth sets back into a thin line. Business mode once again, not a hint of anguish on her face.

“You don’t have to come. We’re getting this all sorted out, but after… we might need a place.”

He doesn’t really hear her leave the room with a ‘thank you’. Tony is  too busy reeling from the bombshell that just dropped in his lab.

\-- --- --

He scratches his own skin raw until it bleeds, trying to get rid of the silver prosthetic attached to his left shoulder. This time, there is sound with the video.

“I DON’T WANT IT, YOU FUCKING BASTARDS!” Barnes screams in rage, eyes blazing. His fingernails are stained dark with blood and black lines run down his left side and along the grooves in the metal. His prosthetic looks like it glows in the black and white film. He doubles over with a groan, fingers digging into the seam where metal meets flesh and Barnes rips the skin open down to metal.

\-- --- --

[Exhibit #89

 _After much debate, we have determined that the Subject’s prosthetic does not work from a psychosomatic standpoint. Every test that was done proved that the prosthetic is in working order and nothing is damaged. To keep the Subject from damaging its own skin, we had to restrain it. [Redacted] suggested leaving the left arm free to move, hopefully prompting the Subject to begin using it._ ]

\-- --- --

It takes a few hours, but Barnes manages to get the silver fingers under control enough to scratch at the restraints. A sharp tug snaps the leather on the one around his chest. In minutes he’s leaning heavily against the wall, clutching his left arm with a pained expression. Then the grin that bares his teeth is nothing but feral.

\-- --- --

[ Exhibit #91

_The weight of the prosthetic snapped four ribs after the Subject attempted to lift a steel beam. They had already been reinforced, but complete replacement might save unnecessary surgeries._

_(Added: Reconstruction of the ribcage was successful. Further operations will attempt to strengthen and support the Subject’s spine to prevent any rotation of the spine due to the additional weight of its arm.)_ ]

\-- --- --

The Soldier limps into view of the camera, pale skin losing even more color as he sits in the chair with his left leg extended in an unnatural angle in front of him. Soldiers mill around in black tactical gear as a woman in a white lab coat approaches him.

“Status report,” she demands, already hooking up a heart monitor and IV.

“Target eliminated. Left knee shattered.” His voice is rough and low. His pale eyes lock onto a spot past the camera, blank, but the hitching of his breathing betrays the amount of pain he is in.

The tech kneels down and carefully inspects his knee. Blood soaks the black fabric into a shade darker. “Cause of damage?” Scissors cuts through the fabric and he stops breathing for a few seconds as she runs her fingers over the misshapen knee.

“Impact upon landing.” He forces out between clenched teeth before exhaling. Another tech approaches and injects more drugs into his veins. Almost immediately, the tension bleeds from the lines of his shoulders and he sags back into the chair. The death grip he had on the arms of the chair loosens.

“Notify the surgeon that we might as well start the reconstruction on the Asset' s joints, starting with the left knee."

\-- --- --

[Exhibit #99

 _Complete reconstruction of major joints was completed. Both hips, knees, and ankles were reinforced with titanium alloys (there was no reason to use vibranium on something that still might have to be replaced eventually). Multiple of my colleagues have talked about the damage to the Soldier’s right arm. His wrist, elbow, and shoulder have broken enough times already from the repetitive force of his punches. The serum might have to be altered, or we might at least have to come up with a way to increase his bone density so they won’t shatter from his own strength. Stress fractures are very common and keeping the Soldier out of cryo for a few days to allow them to heal might save a few injuries in the field. Stress fractures are most common on his left side, due to the unnatural weight of his prosthetic. Average weight of one’s arm is 5.3% of total body weight (the Soldier’s prosthetic greatly exceeds this). I am rather amazed that he does not suffer from fractures or breaks or muscle tears more often than he does. The serum must work rather well after all._ ]

\-- --- --

When they give Barnes food, he throws it at the door. Anyone who approaches gets mauled as Bucky, screaming in rage, lunges for the guards again and again. He’s shaking and roaring his rage to the empty cell, using his new arm to scratch the walls. His fingernails split and then bleed all over the doorframe as he tries to open the unyielding metal.

\-- --- --

“Oh, god. Stop, please! Please, sir!” His cries are useless.

“I’m sorry, please. Please, stop, stop it. God, I’m so sorry. Just stop. It hurts-”

He chokes as a kick knocks the wind out of him. A soldier leans down and pulls him to his knees by a yank on his hair. He moans and doubles over on himself.

“Get your ass over here, Steve! I can’t fucking do this much longer.”

It turns out he can.

\-- --- --

After they wipe him for the first time, he doesn’t stop throwing up from the pain. He also scratches words into the wall. Names, dates, everything they tried to take from him.

His nails don't make marks in the stone, but soon his fingers are bleeding and that's as good as ink.

\-- --- --

He screams in terror, struggling, fighting, and sobbing as they drag him closer to the chair for the fourth time. He’s so weak and so frightened that he isn’t coordinated enough to fight back. They throw him to the floor, four agents holding him down as a fifth tries to fit a rubber guard in his mouth to keep him from biting his tongue.

He doesn’t stop screaming until they raise the voltage.

\-- --- --

[Exhibit #120

Man #1: God, what a fucking mess.

Man #2: He needs Valium otherwise he’s going to have a seizure, like he did.

#1: Could have fucking told me before he pissed himself. Damn it… I’m not cleaning that up.

#2: Didn’t you read the manual? You know what, never mind… I’m sure you could get him to do it, once he’s lucid enough to obey commands.

#1: Shit. How long is that going to take? He dropped like a bag of bricks, man.

#2: I don’t know. His brain was just fried. Might take a while.

#1: Well, we don’t have anything else to do. Maybe we can get everyone together. He owes the team after that fucked up excuse for a mission.

#2: I- Are you sure that’s allowed? I’ve heard rumors of some interesting things at a few select events-

#1: You haven’t been to one of the parties? Hell, it’s practically encouraged- as long as it isn’t on the job. And god, he’s so fucking worth it, just wait and see. After a wipe like this, it’s almost too easy.

#2: I’m not actually gay, so...

#1: That’s not how this works, man. You don’t have to be gay to enjoy this. I promise you’ll like it a lot more than you think you would. Anything you want, we can get him to do it.

#2: ... okay, maybe.

#1: Trust me, you’re going to love it. ]

\-- --- --

Rebecca Barnes, eighty-seven years old, buries her head into Steve’s chest and cries.

“Get me out of here, Steve.”

It’s the middle of the day, the middle of even more evidence and videos and reports that make his chest hurt and his heart freeze. He should be sick and crying, but all Steve can do is nod. Past the last of the Howling Commandos Jones and Dugan, past Peggy, past Natasha, he walks Becca through the crowd and out of the courthouse.

He doesn’t want to see any more of this. He can’t watch Bucky fade and the Winter Soldier take his place.

_Oh, only if that fall had killed him._

(If you asked him if Steve meant himself or Bucky, even he wouldn’t know).

\-- --- --

[Exhibit #147

(excerpt from Dr. Lukin’s, ‘The Maintenance of the Winter Soldier’)

_“The Soldier is extremely intelligent. Many refer to it as an ‘attack dog’ with no understanding of the motives and behavior behind the Soldier. It is a common mistake among those in the Soldier’s presence for the first time, one that can cost lives within seconds. True handlers like Alexander Pierce and myself are the ones who can control the fear and anger of the Soldier into something productive, whether it be for Hydra or another third party._

_The Soldier may be the biggest threat in the room, but its conditioning is what allows a handler to walk in and assert dominance over it with ease. The Soldier has three behaviour patterns: aggressive, neutral, and passive. These behaviors mimic one diagnosed with Multiple Personality Disorder, as each ‘personality’ remembers only certain events and responds to stimuli in unique ways. However, the Soldier’s lack of identity results in no clashing identity confusion between these personalities and consistent wipes leave long term memories inaccessible._

_When the Soldier is aggressive- nicknamed the ‘Alpha mindset’- it is capable of complex judgment calls and higher level thinking. When on a mission, the Soldier will become the perfect weapon, detached and dedicated to the singular focus, the mission objective. This mindset is not desired out of a mission scenario, as the Soldier is quick to interpret any stimuli as an immediate threat and respond in kind with brutal efficiency. In relation to MPD, this personality recalls information of past missions and kills if the time between wipes is too great, while it may even challenge authority figures. In extreme cases, the Soldier has been known to slaughter all members in the room before it could be sedated. Malfunctions in behavior and conditioning are more frequent when the Soldier is aggressive. Immediate reestablishment of control over the Soldier is the most important way to avoid injury or fatality. Severe punishment is also required once the Soldier is secured… (‘Behavior and Personality’ pg. 51)._ ]

\-- --- --

It burns and roars in his mind, like the blood rushing out his wounds. It hurts to breathe. Red stains his bared teeth, drips over his lips when he coughs to try and clear his drowning lungs. A rib or two caused significant internal bleeding and his lungs are going to collapse if the pressure isn’t released.

He’s never felt more alive.

His head snaps to the right, the impact of Pierce’s slap sending blood spraying in an arc from his mouth. It messes up his carefully controlled breathing and he chokes on the foam building up in his throat. Pierce is saying something, furious about something- It’s always something wrong, something he did or didn’t do. Something he could control or couldn’t. But he doesn’t fucking care.

A baton breaks his cheekbone. Punishment for not listening to his handler. One of the soldiers is all too happy to deliver another blow to his stomach, folding him over at the waist. He’s pretty sure they don’t find this amusing and he shouldn’t either, but he can’t help the laugh that tears from his throat.

The room freezes.

He breaks his arm lunging for Pierce, snapping the metal restraint with it. But his left one-he doesn’t want it!- always works. It’s the one that seizes Pierce by his throat as the bullets punch through him.

Three in the back, one through his thigh and one clips his arm. Pierce goes down under him, eyes wide in surprise. The agony is worth it.

He’s pulled off before he can snap his handler’s neck. He’s still laughing, but it’s more of a cough now that the pink foam in his lungs is dark red as it spills over his lips. Pierce should have bruises on his neck for at least a week.

People are yelling. Someone stabs a needle in his neck. He knows they’re going to wipe him as his vision blurs and the pain fades from his injuries. Pierce stands over him. He can’t tell, but he’s confident Pierce is furious. And scared.

“Fuck all of you to hell” he growls, pale eyes snapping open to meet the glare he can’t actually see.

He hopes he bleeds out on the floor.

He wants to die.

( _They wipe him again and again. The punishment for attacking his handler is like nothing he’s ever experienced. He doesn’t remember doing any of it but they still hit him anyways._ )

\-- --- --

“Oh my god. Did you see the leaked footage from the hospital?”

“No?!”

“The Winter Soldier freaked the fuck out and attacked a guard! Broke his face and shattered his arm into bits.”

“Jesus fucking christ. They need to put a bullet in his head and be done with this.”

\-- --- --

“Damn. You sure about this?”

 _No, please please don’t_. But he doesn’t say a word. Keeps his head down and eyes on the floor, no matter how close the men prowl. A kick catches him on the ribs. He doesn’t dare shift away from the pain. _Don’t move. Don’t look at them but pay attention._

“Yeah, man. Look at him. He’ll fucking take it as long as we tell him to,” laughs one. A hand grips his hair and pulls him close to the man’s mouth. He smells alcohol on his breath. It’s strong and it turns his stomach.

“Isn’t that right, you fucking whore?”

He doesn’t make eye contact. “Yes sir,” he forces out in a whisper. He can’t stop his body from flinching when another hand rests on his back. _Please, stop it._ He wants clothes. He doesn’t want their hands on him. He’s not allowed to say these things.

He can’t breathe with a hand on his throat. “Did I fucking say you could speak?!” He almost looks at the man, but he stiffens as he chokes. He can’t breathe. _He can’t breathe he can’t breathe oh god just kill me-_ Then someone grabs from behind, fingernails digging into his hips as they yank him back.

He blanks out.

\-- --- --

>Is Sex worse than Murder?

The Winter Soldier’s defense has chosen to show videos of him voluntarily engaging in sex with other members of Hydra and somehow this gives this monster an excuse to kill children? Okay, guys.

# nice to know who else supports this monster #cleaning up my dash # it's not like he couldn't say no. # if he didn't want it then he could have just killed them # just like everyone else # no mercy for TWS

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

> >>... I don't even know where to begin, you fuck.
> 
> >>> holy shit. Did you mean "sex" as in "rape"? Because he's been tortured and abused for almost a century. A CENTURY!!! Seventy fucking years of brainwashing, every kind of abuse ( mental, physical and SEXUAL), and you think he was actually able to say no?
> 
> >> oh thank god for a fellow, rational human. Yeah, Sgt. Barnes has killed so many people-and it does make me feel sick. It really does- but he has been a victim for so long. Has the OP even payed attention to the defense? I mean, there are so many videos already of Sgt. Barnes _being beaten, begging for them to stop. They tortured  him until he understood that his only choice was to let them do what they wanted._

\-- --- --

Nurse: "Sgt. Barnes, my name is Allison. I've been helping you get better while you've been in the hospital."

Silence.

Nurse: "That's alright if you don't remember me. I have- hey, it's okay."

Low, whine like sound.

Nurse: "Okay, we'll take it easy, alright? I have some food if you're hungry. I'll put that right here."

Nurse: "It's okay. You can eat whatever we give you. No one is going to hurt you, I promise."

Nurse: "Alright... I have some medicine that I need to give you-"

Growls.

Nurse: "I'm not going to hurt you. This is going to make you feel better-"

Heart monitor picks up.

Nurse: "Sgt. Barnes, it's okay. Could you calm down so we can talk about this? Try to copy my breathing. Like this-"

Growls, louder.

Nurse: "Okay, okay. I'll leave-"

Nurse screams as Barnes lunges for her. Security gets control of Barnes, but not before he shatters her right arm. He is sedated for the next few days.

\-- --- --

[Exhibit #212

(excerpt from Dr. Lukin’s, ‘The Maintenance of the Winter Soldier’)

_"... The Soldier, lacking in any kind of positive interaction, craves physical touch. Handlers, the field agents, and technical teams have been instructed to limit contact with the Soldier to necessary impersonal touch or disciplinary action. He is denied a vital aspect of social behavior and thus will actively seek out approval and praise, even subconsciously, to fulfill his craving for human interaction. The following descriptions can be adapted to many situations in order to further manipulate the Soldier into obedience._

_1\. (March 1947, two years into Barnes’s conditioning). He has been in solitary isolation for sixteen days, devolving into a dissociative, nonverbal state. He is also denied proper food and water, compounding his confusion and stress into extreme fear and paradoxically, a strong desire to please. When Gen. Karpov enters and helps Barnes into the adjacent warm room, offers him clothes, a blanket, and hot soup, Barnes (addressed as "Soldier") cries in relief and accepts Gen. Karpov ' s touch eagerly._

_When the General helps the Soldier out of the room again after thirty days of isolation  (alternating between white noise, loud noise and also silence), the Soldier collapses in tears when the General runs his hand through the Soldier’s hair. It leans into the contact with apparent pleasure , even when the contact is only somewhat gentle._

_(Conditioning and Behaviorism pg. 23)_ ]

\-- --- --

> oh god :'c poor bucky. I don't think he even understands that what Hydra did to him was wrong. He's just sitting there letting the prosecutor and the witnesses yell at him. And cap looks like he’s trying to hold himself together but his heart has been ripped out of his chest.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

> >> Don't talk to me about Cpt. Rogers. He looks so fucking heartbroken and I can't imagine how much this has hurt him. Your best friend that you thought died is actually the world's most accomplished assassin. And seeing these videos of what they did to Barnes must kill him.
> 
> >>> Barnes keeps flinching every time someone gets close to him. It's the same thing in these videos. Head down, hunched in on himself. HE STILL THINKS THAT HE'S GOING TO GET HURT D:
> 
> >> that's why he's so aggressive in the hospital. He’s fucking terrified and he's been taught that violence is the only thing he's good at.

\-- --- --

_Because who I am, isn’t who I used to be_

_And I’m not invincible, I’m not indestructible,_

_I’m only human, can’t you see?_

\-- --- --

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

> GUYS GUYS GUYS
> 
> THE NEW YORK TIMES ASKED PEOPLE WHAT THEY WANTED TO HAPPEN TO BARNES AND 74% SAID THEY WANTED HIM ACQUITTED. WE MIGHT JUST WIN THIS AFTER ALL !!!!
> 
> #barnes vs usa #save bucky barnes #literally crying right now

\-- --- --

Sgt. Barnes doubles over in the middle of a testimony given by a member of Hydra' s field team for the Soldier. He is conscious, but not responsive by the time EMTS arrive. They sedate him as a safety precaution before taking him out of the room.

(Shortly after, the agent admitted to participating in physical and sexual assault against him "multiple times").

\-- --- --

_2\. Interestingly, the Soldier responds very well to physical contact in the time between removal from cryo to seventy two hours after. In the initial defrosting process the handler should be the one to start any kind of gentle treatment only if the Soldier is obedient. The proper power dynamic between the Soldier and authority figures is reinforced  through a balance of guidance, corrections, and eventually punishment. Verbal corrections are necessary in early stages, as the Soldier responds well to instructions._

_This, pared with the physical contact the Soldier seeks out, allows the Soldier to be manageable with minimal force. However, as the Soldier grows more wary as it gains suppressed memories, increasingly severe punishments are needed to maintain control (learn about the Soldier’s personalities on pg. 51)..._

\-- --- --

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

> Unfriendly reminder: Bucky Barnes forgot his own name before he forgot Steve’s. #WStrial #those two are(were) in love

\-- --- --

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

> _On Anderson 360 tonight at 7:00 pm-8:00pm CST, a special, extended interview with a psychologist, Dr. Acosta, on the torture tapes presented by the defense during the Barnes vs USA trial._

“Joining me here today is Dr. Elena Acosta, a psychologist and licensed behavior analysis, who has agreed to share her insight into this infamous ‘Winter Soldier trial’. Thank you for coming, Doctor. ”

“Thank you for having me, Anderson.”

“Let’s get right to it; you’ve been following this case for a long time and recently you’ve flown across the country to be here.”

“I have, yes. I am a part time professor at Stanford University, where I teach psychology classes to our students. In one such class I try to bring in real life examples from news coverages, especially public trials, where the students can practice behavior analysis.”

“So this was just another research opportunity?”

“Essentially. When Sgt. Barnes fought Cpt. Rogers on the Southeast bridge in DC, I was horrified, as we all were, but my research side was very intrigued in the days following. Any kind of ‘supervillain’ usually has so much going on and the Winter Soldier was exceptionally focused, a terrorist unlike any other the United States has ever seen.”

“When Captain Rogers appeared in court and claimed that the Winter Soldier was Bucky Barnes and that he had been a Prisoner of War for the past seventy years, did that shock you?”

“Yes, it did.”

“Did that change your opinion of Sgt. Barnes?”

“I was stunned, to put it mildly. When I do any kind of analysis, I try to stay professional but to say I didn’t have an opinion would be lying to myself. But if Cpt. Rogers was right, it changed my opinion and even the trial.”

“Why do you think being a POW be so crucial?”

“With domestic terrorism there is always a motive, whether it be an extremist view or even contempt and rage against the target. But as POW, that motive suddenly benefits the defense instead of condemning the accused because of the potential trauma that Sgt. Barnes could have suffered with Hydra.”

“Today was the first day the defense presented evidence and there has already been lots of graphic evidence. It was hard to watch. I had to leave for a bit, actually.”

“I was rather upset as well. To think that someone could do this to a fellow person is horrifying, even to me and I’ve seen and read about a lot of horrible things.”

“Why do you think he was treated in this way?”

“As Defense Attorney Nelson said, Hydra needed a weapon, so a weapon they created.”

“Trauma changes a person significantly, but there has been a lot of doubt how exactly Hydra could have turned Bucky Barnes, a World War Two hero, into an international assassin. Torture is a powerful motivator, but we’ve also seen Sgt. Barnes complete many, many missions without any kind of physical harm to him.”

“Here is where we get into the behavioral aspect of this case. It’s rather complicated, but I’ll try to do the best to explain it. And please, if something isn’t clear, don’t hesitate to interrupt me.”

“There has been a lot of talk of Stockholm Syndrome. Is that what this is?”

“Well, not exactly. Stockholm Syndrome is when someone who was captured has sympathy and positive feelings for their captor, sometimes going so far as to actually want to stay with the captor. This is much more complex than just Stockholm Syndrome, even though Sgt. Barnes may very well feel such a way towards his captors.”

“Why would someone feel this way? He’s been tortured for so long by the same people he may feel attached to, why would he feel anything for them?”

“The human brain is capable of amazing things. One thing it specializes is keeping you alive. In order for your brain to function, it needs you to eat right, get enough water, and be in good health-including being free from stress. If you are in a life or death situation, it’s not you who makes the decision, it’s the impulsive part of your brain that says “duck!” when something is rushing at your head or “run!” when someone is chasing you. It’s why you hear of people helping others during crises and they “didn’t think about it” even though they may have done something heroic. Your brain doesn’t give you the chance to process this, it just reacts before you are killed.”

“In Sgt. Barnes’s case, every time they hurt him, his brain was trying to figure out a way to stay alive? Even if that means developing feelings for them?”

“Exactly. Except he learns that they aren’t going to kill him. The next thing your brain will do anything to prevent is pain, physical or emotional. Faced with years, decades, of torture and abuse of all kinds, Sgt. Barnes’s life revolves completely around his captors. So his brain, in a desperate attempt to avoid the stress of being in pain, of anticipating pain, suddenly changes his personality. There are three stages of breakdown: equivalent, paradoxical, and ultra-paradoxical. Before this happens, each stressor would react a different response based on how he felt about it. For example, If he was starving he was going to crave food. If he was dehydrated, he wanted water. In the equivalent stage every reaction is the same. Almost as if his brain couldn’t understand the different levels of pain anymore. He felt the pain, but it was like his brain no longer knew the difference of hunger or thirst; all he felt was discomfort. Next is the paradoxical stage. This is where he would stop reacting to big stressors altogether but he would react to smaller stressors.”

“Like his brain is trying to protect him from the severe pain, from something he couldn't handle. “

“Yes. The last stage is when your brain tries completely new things to try to find some way of alleviating the stress. He’s now friendly and obedient when a few days ago he was hostile and stubborn. This is where Stockholm Syndrome starts. If changing his behavior resulted in less pain and more comfort, then it was something his brain was not going to give up on.”

“Thank you, doctor. That was a lot of helpful information. We’ll be right back after the break.”

\-- --- --

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

> HAVE ANY OF YOU SEEN THE INTERVIEW ON ANDERSON 360?!?!?! THEY HAVE A PSYCHOLOGIST DISCUSSING THE EVIDENCE PRESENTED IN THE TRIAL!!!
> 
> #sorry for the caps but i was super excited #psychology is like a hobby of mine #and it’s super important people understand why bucky acted the way he did #sorry #bucky barnes is like a HUGE crush for me #middle school history all over again tbh

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

> oh my fucking god this lady is smart as a fucking whip. Go Elena! (she’s hispanic! <3) And thank YOU anderson cooper for doing this. The brain is a funny thing and do not underestimate its ability to keep you alive
> 
> #save bucky barnes #abuse survivor here #i feel this on a personal level #she explains everything so well and so it’s easy to understand #hispanic power

\-- --- --

“We’re back with Dr. Elena Acosta to discuss the psychology behind conditioning. What exactly is behavioral conditioning? I was a bit overwhelmed at the trial when the defense was explaining it.”

“At the most basic level, conditioning is “learning by association”. It is something that happens more commonly than you think. If I touch something that is hot and it burns me, I learn that hot things hurt and I should avoid them. It is also used for things like training dogs. If I can get my dog to understand that I reward her when she listens to me, she will associate obeying my commands with food and praise.”

“It’s sort of like cause and effect, right? If I do this, something else happens.”

“Usually conditioning is something you have to teach, so sometimes making that jump from “A” to “B” can involve lots of trial and error. Sgt. Barnes, after going through the breakdown stage, is now in an optimal state of mind in order to condition. This is when Hydra starts to systematically erase everything they don’t want and starts implanting behaviors they do want.”

“Like killing in cold blood.”

“ In order to teach behaviors, it takes a few different approaches. Reinforcement is what has the behavior happen again. Positive reinforcement means rewarding a behavior for happening. This is the best way to teach a new behavior because rewards are enjoyable. In one video Sgt. Barnes was given food and blankets for shooting someone. The next time he was more willing to kill because someone was offering him something he very much wanted. Negative reinforcement is when something does not happen and the lack of desired behavior is punished. Sgt. Barnes is suppose to answer when spoken to. When he does not answer, he is hit. Next time he learns to answer to avoid getting hit. Negative reinforcement is easily mixed up with punishment. Punishment is when something happens that is not wanted. If he fights back, something Hydra does not want him to do, they hurt him. The less he resists the less he is punished until he is no longer fighting back because he does not want the pain.”

“And through this, Hydra was able to change his behavior to what they needed? It’s actually scary, to think that this could happen to anyone.”

“It really could. It was a matter of circumstance that it was Sgt. Barnes that became the Winter Soldier and not someone else. No matter how tough you are, brains are brains and the science is out there to alter them. That’s the most tragic part of all of this. Even if the trial goes in Barnes’s favor and they acquit him, all that trauma isn’t going to disappear. Once the brain learns how to survive it is very slow to let go of those learned behaviors.”

“And some of those learned behaviors are deliberately malicious.”

“They have started to manifest in different ways. He’s learned secondary behaviors from the ones Hydra tried to teach him, ones that are less desirable like a fear of doctors that resulted in that nurse being attacked last week. He’s been taught that his skills in violence are the only part of him considered valuable so he lashes out when he’s scared or angry. People in suits need to be respected but now he is wary of anyone wearing a suit. He has been taught to fear people because people are always a threat. He panics when asked about his opinion or when someone gets too close to him because to him, he has learned that everything that makes him human is something that will get him hurt. All people have the capacity to hurt him and he is not allowed to fight back. He obeys orders because he knows what happens when he doesn’t. All of that traps him in a vicious cycle that Hydra perpetuated for the last seventy years. Two years in jail isn’t going to fix that. No, Sgt. Barnes is not apologetic for the people he killed because he was taught that human lives can be wasted. No, he doesn’t understand that what he did was wrong because it’s all he knows. He doesn’t know why he should hate people like Pierce or Zola because the only people he’s interacted with are his captors and that has warped his perception of human interaction and love. He’s not suddenly Bucky Barnes after being the Winter Soldier for so long just because we now have a name to the face. He’s still very much the Winter Soldier. Hydra wanted Bucky Barnes gone and so that personality has all but died.”

“Wow, I, um, appreciate you agreeing to this. I think you’ve given everyone a lot to think about and I want to thank you again, Dr. Acosta. I wanted to believe that one of America’s heroes was not capable of these types of crimes, but I think after today I hope that Sgt. Barnes can pardoned for something that was done to him and that he can start recovering. Thank you.”

\-- --- --

WARNING FOR THE BARNES TRIAL

I know all of you want to show your support for Steve and Bucky BUT JESUS CHRIST PLEASE BE CAREFUL! I don’t have any triggers for anything really and I threw up when I saw the evidence from today. It’s all super graphic and terrible and you are really going to feel sick after this, okay? I’m an ER surgeon, I see lots of shit. But this crosses the line.

Please, please, PLEASE, be wary when you look up anything related to the trial, especially after today. And the defense sure as hell isn’t going to stop for a long while because they need to horrify the jurors into acquitting him. STREAMINGS OF THE TRIAL ARE SO BRUTAL!!!!! I WAS THERE AND IT WAS TERRIBLE. 0/10 DO NOT RECOMMEND (seriously, if you think you want to watch this, you don’t I promise)

Things to watch out for during today’s evidence:

  * torture (including things like waterboarding, beating, starvation… etc)

  * vivisections (absolutely revolting. He’s awake and conscious in all of these. Some of them he’s paralyzed, others… he’s not.)

  * solitary confinement

  * SELF HARM (holy shit, a lot of that in the early videos)

  * SUICIDE ATTEMPTS/SUICIDE (because I’m pretty sure he actually died a few times but they brought him back)

  * Death/violence/murder (he kills a few agents/techs)

  * rape/sexual assault (just horrific)

  * gaslighting, manipulation

  * hallucinations/ mental illness (let’s be honest, Bucky Barnes is no longer a rational person after this. I think he has DID? like actually diagnosed by an independent doctor of the court)

  * abuse (verbal, physical and psychological)

  * objectification/dehumanization

  * blood/vomit/other

  * medical malpractice nightmare (if doctors freak you out please don’t watch… or just don’t watch this period)

  * body horror (deliberate mutilation for the desire to cause lots of pain)

  * weapons (guns, knives, etc… being USED FOR SOME REASON OR ANOTHER)




Just to give you an idea of what you’re about to watch if you choose to watch a stream or something. (technically that’s illegal, kiddies, but it’s an important trial and I know you all are in school rn STAY IN SCHOOL, OKAY?) BUT IT’S PROBABLY GOING TO GIVE YOU NIGHTMARES

He is, as you can imagine, screaming and begging for them to stop. Of course, they don’t, and that’s one of the harder parts to this. And then it gets to the point where he starts giving in to them, too. And that’s fucking heartbreaking

tl;dr It’s a **clusterfuck of horrible things that you don’t want to watch** and you shouldn’t! Just know that it is very terrible and that **Bucky is not responsible for the deaths of all those people** because there is no way in hell he would have been able to say no after after what was done to him

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

> >thank God for doing this. I was going to watch a stream when I got home from school but nevermind :/ i might just read the transcripts of the case tbh
> 
> >> (from Outofthefog.net) Objectification: treating a person like an object.
> 
>   1. Instrumentality: When a person is treated like a tool for another’s purposes (Bucky is a weapon that Hydra uses to kill)
> 
>   2. Denial of Autonomy: When a person is denied the right to make decisions for themselves (Bucky /has/ to do what they say)
> 
>   3. Inertness: Someone is treated like they lack the capacity to do something for themselves (Hydra feeds Bucky through a tube, cleans him, dresses him)
> 
>   4. Fungibility: When a person is treated like they can be discarded (Bucky being thrown into isolation, being put back into cryo, ignoring him)
> 
>   5. Violability: When someone is treated like it is okay to harm them (beating him until he can’t stand, rape)
> 
>   6. Denial of subjectivity: Someone’s feelings don’t matter (Bucky cries, begs for them to stop, they don’t listen)
> 
> 

> 
> It’s super fucking manipulative and he probably thinks he’s worthless .
> 
> No one deserved to be treated this way. No one.

98,655 notes

\-- --- --

Everyone, please be respectful of Sgt. Barnes and Cpt. Rogers, okay? This is really tough on Cap and Bucky is so traumatized, even if he doesn’t “act like it”. Him “acting like it” means he’s aggressive and hostile. Just because he doesn’t look like he’s having a flashback or a cutesy panic attack doesn’t mean he’s in a good mental place after two years in prison. He’s not.

Recovery isn’t cuddles and cookies. It’s trying to get Bucky to eat because he’s been taught to not accept food from anyone because he doesn’t deserve it (did you know he should weigh about 286 lbs, not his current 214?! that’s 25% of his body weight dropped since he’s been out of Hydra’s control-okay, hydra apparently kept him around 260 but they also starved him too), it means sedating him because he’s out of control and he’s DANGEROUS (if i see one more person yell about how horrible it was for the nurse to sedate him I’m going to hit the roof). So keep your fucking distance and do NOT try to get close. He’s still a killer, even if we get that acquittal.

EDIT:  If you startle him like that “fan girl” yesterday, you’ll probably end up with something worse than a crushed ribcage. (i feel bad for her but you don’t try to grab a trained fighter with history like that and think you can walk away unharmed. She’s lucky to be alive and I’m glad Cap was close by to intervene).

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

> |>>what the FUCK is wrong with you people?!? The Winter Soldier just fucking attacked another person and she’s probably not going to make it. Her parents are so upset and she’s in the ICU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Saying that she “deserved it” is so fucking sick. All of you are defending a fucking cold blooded murder who has killed CHILDREN AND INFANTS not to mention probably a dozens of other poor people that are still in some file somewhere.
> 
> |> why don’t you shit on someone else’s post you ignorant crumb? No one is saying that she deserved it, but I don’t know what she expected. I don’t know if you payed attention to the evidence today, but we already know he’s super fucking jumpy AND that his **left arm has been a huge source of pain for him**. She actually grabbed his left shoulder and he responded by throwing his left and very hard metal elbow into her to knock her away. In the video Bucky jumps AWAY from her, not towards her. **He was being defensive, not offensive.** I wish that no one got hurt, but I don’t know what she was thinking trying to grab ahold of him like that. He’s still a killer, yeah, but he’s also scared. You’d know that the poor man is fucking terrified if you actually pulled your head out of your ass and watched the trial :)

34,902 notes

\-- --- --

omg barnes just fled the room when they brought in Lukin. Can’t even be in the same room as his abuser #cries forever #save bucky barnes

\-- --- --

They are eating food right in front of him.

He hasn't eaten in a week and a half. The smell of their hot, greasy pizza has his mouth watering. The ache in his stomach sharpens into pain again, gnawing emptiness. Such a strong smell almost makes him sick. But he _needs_ to eat.

One of the men toss part of a slice to the bomb detection dog. The bloodhound devours it in a few bites and then shamelessly begs for another, tail thumping the table.

The next slice lands right at the Soldier's  knees. He has to close his eyes, swallowing hard, and ignores the growl in his stomach as the dog snaps up the offered food without even fighting him for it. Even the dog knows he shouldn’t eat.

"Soldier."

He looks up at the man. Black tactical gear, dark hair and eyes and a cruel smirk. All of the agents look similar after dozens of operations and missions. Of the five agents, only one of them looks uncomfortable with the teasing. But he's a new addition to the team and will quickly join in once he feels comfortable around the Soldier.

"Sir," he says as the pause lengthens. This time he's expected to answer. The agent addressing him grins. In his hand he holds another slice, half eaten.

He wants to eat so very badly.

"Are you hungry?"

He stiffens. A direct question, one that he is required to answer. Although an affirmative response could be interpreted as a desire for food, something he is strictly not allowed to express. Eyeing the way the agent's hand rests on his gun, he knows what answer he is looking for.

"Yes, sir." His answer is almost inaudible.

The man takes his time standing up. The dog gets another slice of pizza. The agent is relaxed, something that makes him on edge.

"Now why would I give it a reward if it hasn't even earned it?" A few other men laugh with him. He stalks closer, gun held in a loose grip.  "How has something as worthless as you deserve anything, hmm?"

The Soldier tenses up further.

"I think you owe us something for finishing that mission. What do you think?"

He doesn’t have a choice.

\-- --- --

[Exhibit #264

_"The Asset: necessary information during operation.”_

_..._

_12\. The Asset, under no circumstances, is not allowed to speak or express anything other than mission reports._

_The Asset should only have limited vocabulary including but not limited to: yes sir, no sir, affirmative, negative, mission completed, target spotted/eliminated/unknown, etc..._

_If the Asset talks without spoken to or uses extraneous vocab, asks for things or complains of hunger/pain without prompting, notify the head of its tech team immediately"_

_..._

(Guide to handling the greatest Asset: The Winter Soldier). ]

\-- --- --

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

> Last day of the trial! What will the verdict be? #Barnes Trial #save bucky barnes OR #kill the killer

\-- --- --

Any sound he makes is muffled by the mask. It is too tight and the edges dig into his face and throat. He’s not allowed to speak. He is not allowed to ask for things. And he is not allowed to ask them to stop.

They told him they'd back off if he told them to stop, if he told them that he did not want this.

He can’t speak.

\-- --- --

LOOK! THE JURORS ARE GOING TO DELIVER THE VERDICT OH MY FUCKING GOD

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

> > please please please forgive him, he didn’t deserve this. No one deserves this ever and I will probably break him out of jail myself if need be
> 
> >>LOOK THEY’RE BACK
> 
> >>>Cap looks so fucking nervous.
> 
> >>>>OH MY GOD I DON’T BELIEVE IT. JESUS CHRIST
> 
> >>>>>I AM CRYING NO JOKE

\-- --- --

_“Erase this monster I’ve become,_

_Forgive me for all the damage done,_

_It’s not over, say it’s not over!_

_I’m begging for mercy, I’m only the monster you made me..._

_“Monster You Made” by Pop Evil ; War of Angels_

 


	2. "Here Without You" by 3 Doors Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The jury announces the outcome of the trial. Back home, Steve tries to deal with this mess. Also, a certain cat named Mr. Sniffles makes a guest appearance! 
> 
> ___
> 
> Triggers: Brief mention of medical abuse and throwing up (mild), some flashbacks/talks depicting mild violence, swearing, and abuse (mild, too)
> 
> Overall, this chapter is pretty mild compared to the first one as most of it is from Steve's POV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ach, I know it's been forever and three days since I've posted and I apologize for that. But hopefully this chapter is enough for leaving all of you on that cliff hanger!
> 
> This has not been beta'd yet, but mostly because I couldn't wait to post this for all of you XD (so if you see anything yell at me, not my lovely beta)
> 
> The song featured is "Here Without You" by 3 Doors Down. 
> 
> [Spotify Playlist](https://play.spotify.com/user/crazyhyper/playlist/7JGtEmyExenSApuKtG8OTa) ( I don't know how to use 8tracks, okay? :P )

_“A hundred days have made me older,_

_Since the last time I saw your pretty face,_

_A thousand lies have made me colder,_

_And I don’t think I can look at this the same”_

 

\-- --- --

Steve has to sit down.

Not guilty.

_Not guilty._

The jury finds Sgt. James Buchanan Barnes not guilty to all charges.

The roar of the crowd is deafening.

Becca is crying next to him with her wrinkled hands covering her mouth. Cameras and phones flash, both from the press and the public. Bucky looks ready to bolt when the police uncuff him, tense and wary. He might be seconds away from escaping into the chaos before he is escorted out the back door for the sake of security.

Raw, tired relief dulls everything to a faint buzz of noise. More than a dozen reporters try to stop Steve when he makes his way towards where Bucky should be. Thank god he remembers where they all should meet after the trial because he is running on autopilot. Sam’s hand is on his back. Steve realizes he should probably be responding to whatever Sam’s saying, but he’ll probably be forgiven for not being up for conversation at the moment.

\-- --- --

It’s very jarring to have all his friends in the room, both his friends he made during the war and the ones he’s made in this new century. Steve’s having a hard time picturing Dugan and Gabe as an old men, Peggy in a wheelchair, and little Becca needing an arm to hold because she can’t walk as well as she could seventy years ago.

“He should be on his way.” Natasha slips into the room, closing the door behind her. Although not much conversation was happening, it lapses into silence. Sam shifts in his chair, looking as grim as the rest of them. Becca has Bucky’s dog tags in her hand and worries at them like a rosary.

Bucky sent them home after Azzano, hands still shaking as he wrote a letter to follow the telegram he sent. A month was a long time to think your son was in a POW camp with no idea if he was even alive. He got new ones after sending his old ones home.

“How is he?” Dugan’s voice is rough.

Nat shrugs, frowning. “He thinks he’s trapped. The police still are treating him like a threat, which fuels his paranoia.”

Sam mutters something that sounds like “it’s not paranoia if everyone really is out to get you”. And that’s true. Winning the trial doesn’t mean people don’t want him dead anymore. In fact, the reason they are waiting for the building to be emptied is to try and get out of here without a mob forming.

“Is there anything we can do?” Becca looks hopeful. Like Bucky didn’t growl at them a few days ago for getting too close. Or before that, he avoided eye contact and then dissociated when Steve tried to coax him to eat something for lunch. Or when his fear morphed into aggression so suddenly the nurse already had a broken arm before anyone could react.

Steve whips around at the identical, frozen expressions on Gabe’s and Dugan’s faces. He didn’t hear the door open.

There is no recognition in Bucky’s eyes when he scans the room. He has on dark jeans and a grey sweatshirt, something Nat had picked up for him. The sweatshirt fits his metal arm properly, but hangs off the rest of him.

Bucky was always a little sharp around the edges, never weighing much more than one hundred and twenty. In the war, he was still lean but he managed to gain a few pounds of muscle- after gaining weight back from the prison camp. Now, Bucy just looks sick. Pale skin, dark bags under his dull eyes, the too sharp lines of his cheekbones... he’s not healthy. For being in and out of a hospital the past few years, he doesn’t look much better than he did on the run. It didn’t help he’s scared of hospitals and doctors, or that Hydra had him on more drugs that anyone knew what to do with.

“James-”

Bucky’s attention snaps to Becky, his gaze cold and unfamiliar. She doesn’t speak again as Bucky steps around Steve without a word. He was close enough for Steve to feel the air push on his clothes.

Something’s wrong.

Every time Steve’s seen Bucky in a room full of people, he’s never been calm and collected like this. Something’s off. He’s not panicked and looking for an escape. He’s not going for their throats. He hasn't shut down. Everything about him is fake, a mask that Bucky puts on when he’s overwhelmed. It's scary that Bucky can switch into a different person when he feels like he needs to get something done.

 Steve doesn't realize Bucky’s on a mission until he's on top of a table. He yanks the cover on the air conditioning out of the ceiling with a metal screech. The warped metal falls when he reaches for something inside.

He pulls out a gun.

Terror jolts through Steve’s chest like lighting. He’s not armed. Half the room doesn’t have a chance if this breaks into a fight. He doesn’t want to have to do this- Steve is ready to lunge for the gun before he realizes that Bucky still hasn’t turned on them.

The gun goes into a holster. Bucky reaches up again. This time, he’s holding a backpack. He’s quick and efficient looking through a wallet. A wallet packed with credit cards and cash from the US, Canada, and Mexico.

“Buck…”

No response besides a small jerk of his hand.

Knives- _Christ_ , how much did he hide?- are slipped into his boots.

It’s an escape plan. Just like Nat said would happen. He’s trapped and ready to disappear into the world. More than ready to leave, if Steve isn’t imaging the tense, wary set of his shoulders. He shrugs into a leather jacket and works his hands into gloves. It’s cold enough outside to pass as normal behavior.

Steve’s stuck. He can’t stop him… but he doesn’t want Bucky to leave. They just won the trial, so close to having Bucky home and safe. And he’s determined to hide again.

Dugan comes to the same conclusion it seems, because he stands up with much effort. His swollen hands tighten on his cane.

“Barnes-” he starts, voice thick with emotion.

Bucky rounds on him with an animalistic growl, snapping with enough violence to startle them all back. The room is too small. There are too many people too close to Bucky. He’s ready to fight his way out.

But he jerks back as if expecting a blow when Sam raises his hands. Sam isn’t even within arm’s reach. Then Nat says something in another language, voice soft and low. Bucky’s gaze jumps to her before dropping to the floor. He stops growling and sheathes the knife he pulled out.

She continues to speak as she coaxes Steve to move away from the exit. He’s reluctant to move, but even he can see how wired Bucky is about being in the room with them.

It must have been what Bucky had been waiting for because as soon as Steve relocates further away, he slips out the door.

Gone.

\-- --- --

It feels wrong to call him Bucky, like he’s trying to cheat death by calling a man by a dead name. But Steve doesn’t know what else to call him. Old habits die hard, it seems.

Whether Bucky died or not is still up for debate.

\-- --- --

Steve dares to say he enjoys spending time with Sam on the weekends. They live close enough to hang out when Sam’s done with work.

It’s… nice, actually, that Sam’s down for an on and off, casual relationship like this. Dinner last night was amazing, and Steve’s not going to lie; having someone else in his apartment is something he’s been missing for a while, now. (He’s missing Bucky, but it’s been a month since his escape after the trial. But Sam gets it and is more than happy to have ‘date nights’ with him. Screw what everyone says. The future is pretty fucking great.)

Sundays are days for sleeping in. They take a break from morning runs to enjoy a late breakfast, compete with one another to find the most ridiculous tabloid articles about each other, and then relax in companionable silence. Sometimes sharing a couch turns back into sharing the bed in a repeat of the night before.

_“Jesus Christ!”_

Steve wakes up at Sam’s swearing. He’s not concerned at first. And it’s fucking early, if the lack of sunlight in his room is anything to go by.

“Steve… I’d appreciate it if you got out of bed- Hey, it’s cool! We’re cool, you just startled me, that’s all.”

That last part, directed at someone else, has Steve realize someone’s in his apartment. His shield is always by his nightstand so he can grab it in times like this. Hopefully, the intruder hasn’t heard him get up. But it also sounds like Sam’s not too frightened, so maybe it’s-

Bucky.

Bucky is in the living room.

\-- --- --

The power dynamic between the dark haired man and the blond man has not changed. Sam Wilson -he does not dare to address him as such- takes the lead in conversation. The Captain- _Steve, it’s Steve_ \- curbs his behavior as Wilson signals for him to do so, although his displeasure with the orders-that’s not _allowed_ \- is apparent with no attempt to be discrete. But the relationship between the two men is not quite the same as others he has previously seen, but familiar enough so he knows his place.

No, that’s not right-

He’s not- _no, he doesn’t_ -

Wilson has his hands out, positioned in an all-too familiar way. Waiting for him to break conditioning, to snap. Ready to correct him.  But he’s not being threatening, or showing aggression. He’s very quiet and still-see? not a threat I’m not a threat _please don’t_ -

Steve- _Rogers_ \- has moved out  reach. Wilson is trying to make eye contact. He looks in Wilson’s direction because he remembers he still does not look another in the eye without explicit permission. No threats from him, only good behavior.

He misses what Wilson says, but the order is obvious through posturing, the expectation in his tone. Actual eye contact this time. His stomach hurts, even as a chill runs down his spine. Not allowed, either. He glances up.

“Hey,” Wilson says with a controlled smile. The man’s movements are slow as he sits down in a chair. Wilson's unease is clear to him, even though the man does not have an increased heart rate. His breathing is calm. Not unease, then, but caution.

(“ _Proper handling requires a calm, detached handler. The asset can read and interpret even the smallest changes in body language. Don't act in charge; be in control at all times-_ ”)

Something he remembers hearing once when he was half-frozen. A hand had brushed his arm, fire hot compared to his low core temperature. It was so cold. _He can’t move_ -

He's _cold_.

"What's going on, Sam?"

("Look at it. Fucking pathetic- _stand up, damn it_!"

Whines when he struggles to get up. He can't, it's too cold and his legs are not working yet-sir, _please_. Tenses for a blow.)

He can feel the heat of something. Body heat, maybe. Very bad. Body heat means people. He doesn’t want to be near anyone-

("Jesus fuck. Useless piece of shit. Get up!”

A hand yanks him by his hair. _That hurts_.

Everything is too much after the ice, he is too sensitive but nothing is working properly. It’s instinct that causes him to growl and grab onto the man’s wrist, furious.

Mistake. The pain that explodes through his head is _agony_.)

He recoils away-

“Hey, it’s okay!”

It’s not- it’s not okay-he’s not staying still like he should but he’s _so cold_. Movement close to him. Can’t tell what it is, but he flinches anyways. Something presses against the back of his legs.

Trapped-

\-- --- --

_“But all the miles that separate,_

_Disappear now when I’m dreaming of your face”_

\-- --- --

A few hours later, Bucky hovers at the edge of the kitchen, hunched in on himself, wearing a very scruffy, old long sleeve t-shirt. Sam had gone home, but not before offering to help out. Steve declined, mostly not wanting to have a repeat of what happened when one of them approached him. (Steve is also aware of Sam’s mixed feelings about Bucky. He can only ask Sam to do so much.)

Steve has been trying to convince Bucky to eat something, but Bucky keeps eyeing him like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. The suspicion in Bucky’s pale eyes turns into fear any time Steve approaches him, faces him, or talks to him.

Steve sighs, giving up. He gets hit with a wall of rage when Bucky flinches at the noise. The urge to break something is potent enough that he has to place down a plate of now cold toast. A soft sound-a gasp?- catches in Bucky’s throat at the clink of ceramic hitting the table a little too forcefully.

“I’m not mad at you, Buck.” He tries to explain, pained as Bucky cringes. He looks ready to drop to his knees, eyes locked on some space near Steve’s feet. Even though Steve has _never_ hit Bucky, and Bucky has been out of Hydra’s control for almost two and a half years, he’s still expecting to be punished.

(Although, two years spent locked in either a hospital or prison was not a great improvement. Doctors and nurses still brought out Bucky’s flight or fight response, while the prison generally left him in solitary confinement for everyone's safety. Not great social settings that helped Bucky learn to be around people again.)

But Steve should be expecting his kind of behavior. He’s had so many people-hell, he’s probably talked to a quarter of the world’s leading doctors in psychology at this point- and they all couldn’t give him an idea of how long it would take Bucky to stop thinking he was just seconds away from some sort of pain-

Steve sits down at the table and places his head in his hands. Guilt settles in his stomach like a bitter, heavy weight. Bucky is only acting like this because it’s been decades of conditioning that has taught him how to respond to people around him. And because Steve is not meeting Bucky’s standard expectations, Bucky is scared. He doesn’t know how to act, and so he’s expecting to be punished for doing something wrong.

He needs to do this in a way Bucky is going to understand. (As much as it makes his skin crawl, Steve needs to meet Bucky in the middle here. It’s a process.)

When Steve clears his throat so his voice won’t crack, Bucky jumps, but looks at him. Not actual eye contact but close enough.

“Bucky, I’m not going to hurt you.” He says, clear and calm as he can manage. Bucky seems to stare somewhere off to the left of his face. “You have… permission to eat anything I give you, or even things I do not give you. Anything in this apartment, you have permission to use and will not ever be punished for doing so.”

He waits a while for any kind of response or inclination that some internal turmoil of Bucky’s is maybe slightly eased.

“...Bucky?” Steve prompts, a little concerned that he might have dissociated again.

Perhaps not, for Bucky’s gaze drops again.

“Orders understood, sir”.

Steve is the one who flinches this time. Bucky twitches in response. Steve is more surprised about Bucky actually speaking, but the “sir” rubs him the wrong way. Again, another thing he is going to have to address. Maybe not today, though. Too much is going to overwhelm the both of them.

“Okay, Buck. There isn’t a spare bedroom, but you are welcome to use mine. And if you want the couch, I have some blankets in the closet.”

Steve stands up and shatters all the progress he thought he was making.

\-- --- --

Steve can’t figure out why sometimes Bucky decides to leave when he feels scared, or how other times Bucky stays even though he can't stop shaking and he is full of distrust. Whatever it is, he doesn’t yell at Bucky for leaving him for days on end (even though it makes him worried sick) and he leaves out food that says “for you” on a folded up piece of notecard placed on the table so Bucky can at least try to eat something (he has yet to touch anything Steve leaves for him). Does Bucky eat when he is not in Steve’s apartment?

(He does not know what Bucky gets into when he leaves, only that sometimes he comes back quiet, other times he snarls and growls and paces like a predator, and other times Steve trips over him in the night because Bucky had picked a spot on the floor to sleep.)

\-- --- --

Rogers does not know he is in the apartment. He’s… hiding under the couch, skin cold against the dark wood flooring. He feels like he is going to be sick, and that is not ever allowed- the asset isn’t suppose to make a mess and he’s thrown up _on the Handler’s floor, oh god_ \- so he swallows back the nausea, keeping an eye on the room. He can only see Roger’s feet from such a low vantage point, but it’s okay because he can observe without being in line of sight.

So far, Rogers has sat down at the kitchen table, did something in the kitchen afterwards, and now he paces the living room, sometimes walking right past him. A phone keeps going off, a shrill chime that made him flinch the first few times. But it’s okay, because no one knows he’s here. He shouldn’t- _technically_ \- be here without Rogers approval-

She had said that Rogers wasn’t going to be upset. He can’t remember if she’s ever lied to him before. Many people have, but he doesn’t have dread crawling down his throat when she’s near-

\-- --- --

_He’s sitting under her kitchen table, with her cat in his lap.It’s an old black cat with long fur. It was an odd name for a cat, Mr. Sniffles. But he did make nasally sounds due to his very short muzzle._

_The cat is purring. The vibrations travel through his left arm. It’s almost… pleasant._

_“-not going to be upset, really- hey, are you listening?”_

_Startled, he jerks his gaze towards Sophie, heart rate picking up._

_“It’s okay.” A pause. “ It looks like Mr. Sniffles likes you.” She nods towards the cat with a smile, letting him know that his behavior was pardoned. She’s never punished him- for anything, ever- but he reacts like it’s someone else, no matter what he tries to remember._

_“He likes to be scratched on his head.”_

_Always cautious, he does as she suggests, scratching lightly on the top of the cat’s head. The purring increase in volume as Mr. Sniffles arches into his hand and then settles even more into his lap. Sophie watches for a while before starting up the conversation again. He forgets that she’s one of them that expects him to reply when they speak to him._

_“Steve Rogers isn’t going to punish you for anything; he’s probably one of the nicest people you could ever meet. And he’s very concerned about you.”_

_He keeps his eyes on the cat._

_“Winter,” she urges._

_He meets her gaze. Her brown eyes are unusually shiny. She’s upset._

_“No one is ever going to hurt you again, alright? And Steve is a really good guy. He just wants you to be safe.”_

_Safe?_

_“I- I don’t understand.” His voice is rough, hoarse. He hasn’t talked in awhile, and it almost hurts. He knows what he’s allowed to say._

_Sophie’s expression crumples into sorrow before she controls herself again._

_“You like to be under things like this table, for example. It’s harder for someone to get to you and you can keep an eye on the room. You feel better when you’re able to do that, right?”_

_“... yes?”_

_“It’s safer under the table than being out in the open. And you don’t feel safe around Steve Rogers, do you?”_

_His silence is an answer._

_“He’d be okay with it if you scouted out his place when he’s not there. You could probably wait in a closet or something while he's home so you can be near him without him knowing about it.”_

_“He calls me ‘Bucky’.” He says, a sudden contribution to the conversation. As soon as he speaks, he realizes that the exchange is wrong. A pattern he has long forgotten, even though he knows that this isn't it._

_“Well, it's a name.”_

_One that gives him a sick, heavy feeling every time he hears it._

_He doesn’t want that name - names are unnecessary. But he is not allowed to voice his opinion on it. Some of his reluctance must show._

_“James is a common name. What about that?”_

_It seems that everyone knows what he is thinking, even when he tries to hide it. His handlers and the technicians would always know, too._

_Why does he need a name? He'll obey when called. He'll do whatever he is told, regardless of what they call him._

_“Are you okay with ‘James’ ?”_

_“Yes,” he agrees because Sophie is wanting his affirmation. He remembers to not say “ma’am” because Sophie doesn’t like him to address her like a technician, even if she is one._

_Sophie flashes a smile at him, pleased._

_“How about some lunch?”_

_Food._

_A reward for being well behaved and doing what she wanted. His stomach growls. He has not eaten for half a day._

_“Please.” Eyes down, head bowed. Submissive._

_“Of course.” Her voice is warm._

_He prefers Sophie to be his tech._

\-- --- --

It's been two days since he's seen Bucky around. Even though Steve doesn't want to keep Bucky against his will, Hydra is still active. And he's not confident in Bucky’s ability to take care of himself. The first time Bucky showed up in his apartment he was wearing old clothes that smelled like he had been living on the streets. They were blood stained.

Natasha is sending him updates as she and Clint find Hydra bases and sleeper cells. The closest ones have already been destroyed, the intelligence lost. Computers had bullet holes centered on the hard drives every time. Filing cabinets were emptied, and the files reduced to ashes soaked in gasoline.

Whoever it is that is doing this, they always remain ahead of Clint and Nat.

He bets it is Bucky. His absences coincide with a lot of the destruction.

And the fact that any bodies they find are almost unidentifiable. Such a brutal display of inhuman strength concerns Steve.

He's pulled out of his thoughts by his phone ringing. It's not a known number when he looks at the screen, but Steve still accepts the call, hoping it isn't those telemarketers that he's grown to despise.

“Hello, is this Cpt. Rogers?” It’s a woman's voice, soft and a little shy.

“May I ask who is inquiring?” As much as he hates the telemarketers, he hopes it isn't one of the “fan girls”. The ones who get his number are a bundle of nerves and high pitched squealing and Steve really not in the mood.

“Um, this is Sophie Hunter. We met at the hospital where Sgt. Barnes was first brought in?”

He can feel his mood sour. “Yes, I remember you, Ms. Hunter.” The Hydra tech that was called in whenever Bucky had to be calmed- calling in someone with the capabilities to ‘control’ Bucky was _all kinds of wrong_.

(The court had proved her innocence the same way Bucky was innocent; she had no choice in what she was forced to do. But the fact Sophie Hunter is one person Bucky seems to trust- and even then, he wouldn't say Bucky trusts her. Well, it rubs him the wrong way. Steve knows _exactly_ why he's pissy about it, too.)

She picks up on his icy tone, and remains quiet for a short pause.

“Sorry to bother you. I was calling to see how he was doing.”

“I haven't seen Bucky around in a few days,” Steve admits, “he doesn’t stay here for long.”

“Well…” She sounds almost sheepish. “You might just not have seen him.”

“What do you mean?” Steve’s not alarmed-yet.

“He was a little skittish at my place and he was under the table with my cat. I suggested that he could pick a place to camp out in your apartment, so that he could try to get used to sharing space with you.”

Oh.

“That explains it,” Steve mutters. He’s been feeling paranoid all damn weekend.

“You aren’t looking for him now, are you?” She demands, tone sharp. Her sudden change in behavior has him bristle.

“ _No_.”

Her sigh of relief, however, has Steve try to temper his emotions.

“I’m not going to do anything that makes Bucky uncomfortable; if he wants me to see him, he’ll be here.”

“Then, maybe when he’s talking to you, could you find out what he wants to go by? I couldn’t get an honest answer out of him.” Sophie sounds hopeful, but Steve doesn’t understand.

“He was lying to you… about his name?”

She is quick to reply, “No! I mean- I don’t know. But I know how he thinks, and if he  thought that I wanted a certain answer from him he’d tell me what he think I wanted to hear.” Her voice goes soft again towards the end, a quiet sort of confession.

“I didn’t think to ask him what I should call him,” Steve says after another pause, uncomfortable. He wasn’t even thinking about it, but he remembers how Bucky would sometimes not respond when Steve called his name. He never realized that Bucky wasn’t responding because Bucky has yet to decide if he wanted to keep his name or not. Steve just assumed that Bucky was acceptable- it’s his _name_. But if he can’t remember…

“Well… he’s still struggling with the concept of his sudden independence.”

Yeah, Steve can tell.

“Can you get him to eat, when he’s over at your place?” He asks suddenly, remembering that Bucky hasn’t touched food here.

“Yes, but only if I tell him to eat.”

Steve winces. He doesn’t want to order Bucky to eat.

Sophie continues, “He’s not going to eat anything unless you tell him that he has to eat it. Don’t be harsh about it, but maybe say that you want him to eat whatever you just gave him.”

He hates that she knows how to get him to do what she wants, but he also can’t blame her for it. She’s trying to keep him healthy enough to stay out of the hospital, and so Steve shouldn’t be so bitter about that.

But he is. Every time he gets up the morning he has to deal with the fact that he’s seventy years into the future without his friends, living a life he should have had a long time ago. Steve remembers exploring what the 21st century had to offer, thinking that Bucky would have loved it. And he wished that both of them got home safe from the war to have their own lives.

 _God fucking damn it_. Such twisted poetry that both of them are still alive in a century they were not meant to see.

“Alright, thank you. Ms. Hunter.”

“Any time.”

\-- --- --

Steve doesn’t look for Bucky, even though it’s the only thing on his mind. He makes dinner and pretends to fall asleep.

(Sometime around two in the morning, the door to his bedroom creaks open so slowly, he almost doesn’t hear it. Steve doesn’t dare to move.

A few minutes later, the door closes.

He is left staring up at the ceiling until the sun rises, straining to hear any signs of Bucky in his apartment.)

\-- --- --

_I’m here without you, baby,_

_But you’re still on my lonely mind,_

_I think about you, baby,_

_And I dream about you all the time,_

_I’m here without you, baby”_

_“Here Without You” by 3 Doors Down; The Greatest Hits_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that you found Sophie acceptable as an OC? I need some doctors/civilans to play parts in this story and I am not well versed in the MCU (and I am clueless about the comics, too).
> 
> Expect much more drama in the next chapter, which will mostly be from Bucky's POV! 
> 
> (psst comments really make my day!)
> 
> Love you all and stay safe XOXO


	3. "Mourning Star" by Gemini Syndrome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Graphic, violent scene AND  flashback, brief mention of sexual assault/rape, manipulation (in flashbacks), a severe panic attack, and dissociation.
> 
> Steve tries, but he probably isn't being as helpful as he likes to think he is. Also, more Sam Wilson is always better. Don't want to spoil too much, but this is going to have a few rough scenes in it, but also some fluff because it's almost Christmas and you all deserve something nice for the holidays <3 (Well, I say nice.... more like angst)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have two betas now!
> 
> [My first beta's tumblr is here](http://nervouscatcolor.tumblr.com/)  
> [My second beta's tumblr is here](http://42isrobin.tumblr.com/) (this lovely one helped me on this chapter)

 

_ “Sick of myself, my world, my life,  _

_ Get out of my way, this truth can’t lie, _

_ I stop myself every second I try, _

_ Every minute of time is an hour I die,” _

\-- --- --

He- _ Bucky, that’s what Steve calls him _ \- gives in to the exhaustion that’s becoming harder and harder to fight. The blue light filtering in from the windows doesn’t allow him to relax. It would be all too easy for someone to get a view of the entire apartment. Before he can think better of it, he pulls the heavy curtains closed in order to cast the room into complete darkness.

The blanket sitting on the leather couch is soft, very soft. The leather is cold on his skin so he spreads out the blanket to lay on it. His hands shake even as he repeats the rules in his head. 

Sleeping on the couch is allowed. Sleeping without permission is allowed-

( _ He wakes, choking, to water in his face and recoils away- or tries to. He’s so cold, he can’t move besides violent shivering. Even though they grab him in anger, he leans into the warm hand on his arm. The slap that knocks his head to the side is vicious- _ )

He startles enough to realize it’s not happening right now. He’s not waking up out of cryo, even though his bones ache like he’s trying to stand for the first time in years. Injuries he has sustained, even ones he doesn’t quite remember, are a constant source of pain- one he can't do anything about. He can hear the grinding of his joints, feel the too tight tension in his back, and when he yawns, his jaw catches and clicks. 

There is another blanket on the couch. This one is a deep red color. He picks it up and drops it in shock. The blanket is warm, almost hot. An electric blanket, like the ones he was given sometimes in the hospital. 

( _ “I- I don't know if I want to in there-” _

_ “I'll do it; he's too sick to do anything, much less put up a fight.” _

_ He has no energy to get up. Even though his lungs hurt and he feels like he is drowning, coughing tires him too much to even try to clear his lungs.  _

_ But he still manages a weak snarl when the door opens. His warning turns into a coughing fit that leaves him gasping for air. _

_ “Hey, darling. It’s just me.” _

_ He freezes, eyes wide open before he spots her familiar face. He releases the tension in his body with a sigh and another cough catches in his throat. Exhausted, he closes his eyes. _

_ A hand presses to his forehead before disappearing again. That brief moment of contact has him shivering again, as his body tries to generate enough heat to regain homeostasis. He cycles between sweating and refusing any sort of blanket to not having enough warmth no matter what he does.  _

_ Her thoughtful hum is familiar, and he feels relaxed enough to sleep- if his coughing fits would cease.  _

_ “That sounds painful. Could you sit up for me?” _

_ His hesitates, not wanting to leave his collection of blankets and the spot on the bed that has absorbed his body heat.  _

_ “Here, this should be warm enough by now.” _

_ Something warm- no, hot- drapes over the blankets he has curled up in. The sound he makes is something between a sigh and a moan of relief. That is, before his coughing starts.  _

_ Sophie startles when he lunges into a sitting position, choking and gasping between violent, deep coughs that won't stop-) _

His chest aches with the memory. But at least he knows what he is recalling.

Faint green-blue numbers change in his peripheral vision. A clock, which reads 4:09 am. Rogers must be asleep by now. He wakes up early to run on some mornings, not always though. Three hours of sleep is as much as he can get before Rogers finds him in the living room.

Unless Rogers already knows that he is here, which is possible. 

He could wake up in two hours, leaving an hour for leeway in order to be alert when Rogers will walk out of his room. 

He's not supposed to sleep, and cannot bury his suspicions that Rogers is testing him. They always are.

Two hours. 

Stretching out on the couch, he considers using the electric blanket but then thinks better of it. If Rogers finds him sleeping, the punishment would be greater if he slept with it. He shouldn't even be on the couch with a blanket, but it is inevitable that he is going to make a mistake and would rather be comfortable for at least a few hours.

He also knows that even though he was told to sleep, his handlers are never consistent. He might be able to follow instructions one day, but the next time he does it could result in an unsuspected punishment, just to prove that his handlers could. Or that he had done something wrong the second time around and was getting corrected. They give him all sorts of explanations for why he’s getting punished. Not that it matters. Pain is pain and he’s expected to suffer through it quietly, without fight. So he does. 

Boundaries will have to be set eventually. 

\-- --- --

He wakes only minutes before Rogers walks out of his bedroom, only alerted by the sound of toilet flushing. He stands to the side of the room, equidistant from Roger’s door and the exit. The blankets are folded again and placed in near identical spots to where he found them last night. The couch shows no signs of him sleeping on it, either. 

Rogers must believe he has not slept, for his eyes dart to and from the couch and blankets. 

“You can sleep, really.” Rogers sounds… not disappointed, but upset, maybe? He can’t think of the proper word. “Please, you look exhausted.” The crease that forms between his eyebrows is back, as is the frown lines around his mouth.

He evades Roger’s gaze, uncertain in this handler’s ability to read his body language. Somehow or another they always know. He’s checked Roger’s apartment for bugs and found none even after hours of thorough searching. (He was very careful to leave everything exactly as he found it, relieved that Rogers dusts often enough that he didn’t have to worry about disturbing dust-fall patterns.)

With a sigh, Rogers continues past him. It makes him on edge, Roger’s lack of interest. Maybe he's only pretending to not pay attention in order to observe his asset. 

Hesitant, he remains standing as Rogers moves around the kitchen. Getting coffee, he realizes when he smells it brewing. It's a simple machine, not one that cost a significant amount of money.

Rogers is not poor, but he’s the least wealthy of the handlers he can remember. His last handler always had very nice things, including food and expensive clothes. 

_ (He whines even before his handler realizes that he's gotten blood on the carpet. He smelled the metallic, distinct scent before he realized what was happening. _

_ “What-” and the handler stops to stare at the dark splatter of crimson on his cream, flawless carpet. The silence stretches and he can see the anger in his handler’s sharp blue eyes and the tightening of his jaw.  _

_ He's completely frozen, both hands trying to stop the blood dripping from his nose. He can feel it pool in his right hand, warm and thick in a way that reminds him of the target bleeding out a few hours earlier. _

_ “I thought you said you had no injuries.” It's not a question, but his handler only kneels down next to him with a tissue in hand. He flinches when the Handler guides his head to tilt down while pressing the tissue to his nose.  _

_ “No- I received no injuries- the blood, I didn't- I don’t know what- it's not from anything, sir. I didn't mean, please, sir. I was unaware of any malfunctions-” He can hardly breathe past the fear tight in his chest. And he does not speak as he should, his sentences fragmenting into a mess- _

_ “Easy, it's alright,” the handler soothes, checking on the blood flow. “I doubt you'd disobey me by getting a bloody nose.” He leans over to the coffee table to grab another tissue and uses this one to wipe up the blood on the Soldier’s hands. His left hand has no creases for the blood to get stuck in, and so it just drips through the mechanisms inside and down the silver plating on the other side. _

_ “It's no big deal; just a drop of blood. I can get this cleaned up quickly as to not stain.” _

_ Relief tames him, and he cannot help the shudder that runs down his spine.  _

_ The Handler smiles, blue eyes soft again. “I'm not unreasonable, pet. You always try to be so perfect for me; I believe you wouldn't ruin anything on purpose.” _

_ What? He didn't mean to ruin anything! Just like that, the panic creeps back in.  _

_ “I'm so sorry, sir, for making a mess. I had no- I didn't mean to ruin this for you, sir, please-” _

_ “Settle, pet.” His handler orders with a chuckle, his fingers working on a knot of tense muscle in the Soldier’s neck. It feels amazing, and he has to stop himself from melting into the contact.  _

_ “I'm sure we can find a way for you to make it up to me, can't we?” _

_ Something makes him nauseous all of a sudden, but he forces it out of mind. Maybe he swallowed some blood by accident. He is not going to throw up. He  _ **_cannot-_ ** _ ) _

“- _ now _ !”

The sharp bark from Rogers causes him to flinch, hard. He drops to his knees; it's an automatic response. 

Everything is dull and he is numb. It happens more often than he first thought it did, the way his senses seem to block almost everything unnecessary. No more pain, no more exhaustion. It is nothing more than a flicker of annoyance on the edge of his awareness. He can hear orders, but he has no need to process them. He can still follow them in this trance that wraps him up like a comforting layer of thick cotton. 

Hands reach for him. Dangerous. He does not want them, but his body does not react- as it should act- and those hands pull him up so he can stand. If they hurt him, he will not feel it. He will be aware of the pain, but as an occurrence instead of true agony. 

_ (They don't like that he does that, and when they notice he gets punished worse. Sharp, intense pain that shocks him back into proper behavior.  _

_ It often turns into the opposite problem where the pain is the only sensation in his head, an incomprehensible agony that rips him apart into a mess of metal and blood. It tears out his obedience and lays him out on the floor, doing everything he should not do. Begging, struggling, screaming… they'll find a way to shut it up. A muzzle tight on its face. A chain or rope wrapped around its neck. One time, a fire-bright iron rod down its throat.  _

_ It fought harder when that happened, trying to get out of the restraints and away from the glowing iron that approached it. They forced open its jaw and the metal burned the sensitive flesh of the mouth and lips as it, helpless and pathetic, squirmed as the rod was shoved down its throat. That pain was indescribable, a kind of agony that ended everything. _

_ They didn't stop until they were satisfied- or bored, whichever happened first. Not even at the awful, desperate noises it made as they continued to burn more of its throat when it still wouldn’t shut up. Not until saliva dripped down its chin because any motion like swallowing caused even more agony. Not until the metal cooled off and it couldn't stop choking and gagging on it- even then they didn't stop. _

_ As a cruel joke, it was left alone in a cell for days to recover with only a bottle of water. It couldn't drink, it couldn't make a sound. It just trembled and didn't stop until it was thrown into cryo and the ice took away it all. _

_ They didn't erase the memory for a long time.) _

“Bucky, stop it!”

What's happening?

He's scared. He's scared he's scared. scared. scared stop  _ stop _ please- fear-he's fearful and frightened. It  _ hurts- _

Who's there? - he's scared- it won't happen again just stop,  _ stop _ -

Please please please please  _ please please please _ \-  **_oh, god-_ **

“Bucky! You need to calm down-”

a voice far away- he can’t hear it- he can't understand the words-just please, stop doing this to me-

Please help me please please please please please don’t make me do this please please please _please please please please_ ** _please_** **_please_**

Stop it-he's scared-it hurts- the pain- he's hurting - stop  _ please, _ the pain, sir,  _ please _ \- help him!

“We need to sedate him; he's having some kind of panic attack-”

**Get away!** No no no- someone come  _ please save me _ \- no, oh, no no no he'll- oh god, please  _ no _ !

He hears a keening sound, a cry of pain that won't stop- why won't it stop-  _ why won't they stop?! _ He'll be good he'll do whatever they want, sir, please I'll do it- just stop hurting me I can't-

I can't! I don't want to- _Oh god, no- anything but that-_ **_please not that!_** Please, he's scared please please _please_ please please don’t do this he's begging them

_ It’s  _ scared- no,  _ don't _ ! Please forgive me, I didn't mean to- it's trying to be good- it's good it wants to be good for you, sir, please-

No pain- no, please, don't hurt it-

“There you go, darling. Give it a few moments to kick in, alright?”

-what? What's happening? why is it tired- it can't be tired- is that a sedative?-  _ no _ **NO!**

Can't sleep- no, it can’t- stop it! No doctors, _no doctors!_ Fear. Pain, lots of pain it hurts it can't move- please be over just stop- No doctors. Bad _very bad doctors-_ **_don't touch me_** \- no sleeping or punishment- can’t sleep- can’t sleep, _please!_

“Yes, you can sleep. Remember? Sleep is okay. It is allowed. And no doctors here I promise you. No one is going to hurt you; you’re safe now.”

… no doctors?

Sleep?

“That's right. You can sleep as long as you want in this bed. It's warm, too.”

…

Warm?

It shouldn't- it can't- not  _ allowed _ \- it's a trick-

but no doctors?

Okay-

Tired. Very tired and hungry. Sleep first- he's safe, maybe- it’s too late but the bed is warm.

He likes being warm. The blankets are soft.

He is already asleep.

\-- --- --

It takes too long for the sedative to kick in, even though it is only a matter of moments before Bucky goes limp and pliant in Steve’s arms. He waits a little while longer to make sure Bucky’s really out before detangling himself with a little sigh. 

“Do you want some ice for that?” Sophie Hunter offers, placing the empty auto-injector down on a paper towel. 

Steve reaches up to touch the bruise he can feel forming on his right cheek. It’s a small mercy that Bucky was too panicked to be coordinated. No blood, no split lips this time. He stands up and pulls a blanket over Bucky’s still form. 

“I think I’ll live,” he replies. “Besides, it’ll be gone in a few hours. How are your ribs?” 

She laughs a little, but it sounds forced. “I’ll live.” She reaches up and brushes her dark hair out of her face before rubbing at her eyes. When she stops, her gaze is locked on Bucky. 

“I-” she sniffs and clears her throat. “He might develop a slowed breathing rate. We need to put him on his back.”

Steve positions Bucky in his bed, head in the center of his pillow and Sophie helps to move his arms, his right resting on his chest and his left by his side before placing a large pillow under his knees. They both help straighten out the covers. Steve grabs the electric blanket from the couch and lays it down to cover Bucky. 

The silence between them is awkward. 

Steve shifts on his feet as Sophie checks his pulse. “Do you know how long he’s going to be out?”

Protectiveness surges in his chest when Sophie brushes back Bucky’s hair from his eyes, but he keeps quiet about it. She was the one who helped out when he called. Besides, she probably knows Bucky better than anyone right now. And Bucky knows her- well, recognizes her most of the time. 

“Hm… I’d say no more than four hours. This,” she gestures to the syringe, “is actually a barbiturate, not a benzodiazepine that he is usually given. Barbiturates don't cause any kind of memory loss, but the chances for him to develop side effects is greater.”

Steve stares at Bucky, watching his chest rise and fall. Peacefull, not the shaking, ragged panic that gripped Bucky not five minutes ago. 

“What was that?” He doesn’t mean to whisper, but he can’t really speak all of a sudden. 

He had turned around, about to ask if Bucky wanted anything for breakfast, but found Bucky stock still, hands clenched into fists. The look in Bucky’s eyes was what caused Steve to call for help. His gaze was unfocused, filled with fear.

And Steve couldn't get him to snap out of it.

Sophie sits on the edge of the bed, fiddling with her jacket zipper.

“I don't know- I've never seen him like that before.” She admits, quiet in the otherwise silent room. “It looked like a panic attack, but… that was more intense than I was expecting. He was catatonic there for a while… maybe he was reliving a memory.”

Of what? No- Steve doesn't want to know. 

Sophie continues. “If he wakes up again like that, you can go ahead and give him another dose. I should probably get going-”

“You don't have to leave right away. I owe you breakfast at least , if you're interested?” Maybe Steve wants her to stay to help out, but he also knows he's been a bit of an ass to her in the past. 

She pauses. 

“Come on, it's seven in the morning. Please?” Steve owes her more than his contempt. She must read some of his guilt on his face, for a small smile appears. 

“Breakfast sounds good.”

\-- --- --

“You don't have to apologize to me. I don't blame you for what you probably think of me.” Sophie breaks the silence first.

Steve actually stops eating and stares at her. She freezes, too, her mug halfway to her lips. 

“Sorry, I-” Sophie starts to apologize. 

He laughs at her expression of mild horror, and a blush creeps across her face. 

“Am I that obvious?” Steve asks, incredulous. 

Her blush darkens. “I'm sorry, it's a habit of mine.”

“Huh… so you can't read minds?”

“Nope,” she replies, and then a wry smile appears. “But let's say you have a terrible poker face, Captain.”

“I've been told that before.” Steve grumbles. “I apparently can't lie to save my life.”

“I believe that.” 

The amusement fades, leaving them to face the real issue. Steve tells himself to suck it up. He's the one who wants to make this right. 

“Sophie, I want to apologize for how I've acted around you. I was trying to blame you for something you had no control over, and that was not acceptable for me to do.”

“I forgive you,” she says with a rueful smile. “It's easier to forgive each other than forgive ourselves, isn't it?”

They both look to the bedroom. 

“Yes,” agrees Steve. It’s the truth.

\-- --- --

Sophie leaves after a while, but not before Steve gets her to talk about what she used to do for Bucky as his main ‘technician’. If what she says is true, he can understand why Bucky trusts her as much as he does. Of course he attached himself to the one person who didn't cause him pain; she was probably the only one who Bucky could trust to not hurt him.

With nothing to do and a lot of things on his mind, Steve decides to clean up his place. It really wasn’t that messy, and unfortunately, he’s done cleaning up the minimal amount of clutter within half an hour. 

He moves on to organizing his bookshelves (again) and decides to organize them by color, just for the hell of it. He starts off with white, then yellow, and starts looking for orange. Steve doesn’t have more than two orange books- maybe he has a third in his bedroom? But those books will have to wait. 

Steve is in the middle of gathering all of his green books when he hears something from behind his bedroom door. It’s only been three hours, but he still goes to check on Bucky. 

He looks like he's still sleeping until Steve rounds the bed. Bucky’s eyes open and his legs twitch. Judging by the confusion, Bucky hasn’t gotten full control over his limbs yet. Steve gets pinned with a fearful stare as soon as Bucky can focus on him. 

“It's alright, Buck. It’s just medicine that hasn't gotten out of your system yet.” Bucky looks like he’s fighting for consciousness, too. Why couldn't he sleep off the drugs, instead of waking up panicked with it still working?

He probably hates being drugged after all they've done to him and Steve’s over here already exhausted with the situation. Suck it up. He owes Bucky this.

Meanwhile, Bucky struggles under the blankets. He's still uncoordinated and only knocks a pillow off the bed. 

“Okay, okay. You don't want to be in bed.” Steve pulls the covers off and Bucky stops moving besides the rise and fall of his chest. When he glances up at Steve, he looks lost and scared.

Towering over Bucky isn't helping. Steve kneels next to the bed while being careful to not be too close. Pale eyes track him as he moves.

“Do you want to get out of bed, yes or no?” Steve dares to ask, trying to coax an answer out of him. Bucky has yet to speak to him in his apartment. 

Slowly, Bucky nods once. It's not talking, but close enough for Steve.

“Okay, but I'm worried you're going to fall over if you try to stand. How about if you sat on the bed?”

Steve gets another stare, this a little blank. He sighs. 

“Do you want to sit up, yes or no?”

It takes Bucky longer to decide. Steve doesn't know if it is drug related or suspicion. He nods again.

Bucky, realizing he probably can't get up without help, doesn’t flinch away when Steve reaches out to steady him. Steve can’t think of this as progress even though Bucky is not panicked at the contact. He's too out of it right now to be aware of much.

Buck tries to stand as soon as Steve gets him sitting up. 

“Woah, Buck. Take it easy, alright? No rush.”

But this time when Steve reaches out to prevent him from falling, Bucky growls. Steve snatches his hands back and backs up, respectful of Bucky’s wishes even if it means Bucky is going to face plant on the floor. 

His forehead wrinkles in confusion as he stares at the room. Bucky's legs give out when he tries to walk and he crumples. He stays where he's fallen, too groggy to get up.

Steve stays in the room just in case. He relocates further away towards the closet so Bucky could have some space. 

It takes another twenty minutes before he hears Bucky move again. He burrows back into the covers on top of the bed with only the top half of his face peeking out. He watches Steve, silent and weary. 

Steve stands up to close the curtains, trying not to notice how Bucky tenses up when he does so.

“Sleep well,” Steve says quietly as the room is cast into darkness. “I'll be in the living room if you need anything.”

\-- --- --

_ “If you knew what it meant to me,  _

_ To make it through tonight,  _

_ You would be a mourning star,  _

_ And guide me through this life,” _

\-- ---- --

He doesn’t know what time it is, only that the room is darker than it was. The drugs in his system are gone, but he still can't get up. He can't really feel anything and he cannot decide if that is good or not. 

He's too exhausted to stay awake.

\-- --- --

The next time he opens his eyes, Rogers is kneeling before him, that little crease in between his eyebrows present. They are no longer in the bedroom. He must have been moved, which concerns him. He doesn’t remember.

Firm pressure on his hand has him refocus on Rogers. In a detached sort of way, he discovers that he can’t hear what Rogers is saying. Even though he's going to be punished for not listening, he can’t even feel the usual panic and that doesn't bother him. 

Seeming to realize this, Rogers leaves. 

\-- --- --

Bucky's not responding to him. Steve coaxed Bucky out of the bedroom around 11 am - not that Bucky resisted. He just didn't have the energy to move. 

It's now 12: 30, meaning that Sam's now on lunch break. Steve sends Sam a quick text asking how his day's going. He's not going to bother Sam about yet another issue about Bucky. 

_ >”Sam”: Pretty good. I've made some progress at the new funding attempt by yelling at some people :)  _

_ >> Nothing works like old-fashioned intimidation. _

_ >”Sam”: “old-fashioned”? Funny guy _

_ >”Sam”: speaking of intimidating, how's he doing? _

Steve can't believe people like Sam exist. Actual, genuine people that would do something because they know how much it means to someone else, even if it wasn't something Sam himself really wanted to do. 

_ >>He's sleeping a lot.  _

_ >”Sam”: that's probably good for him _

_ >> Maybe. You eating anywhere good for lunch? _

Steve gets a picture in reply. That's looks like really great pizza. 

_ >”Sam”: should I order an entire extra pizza for you? Lol _

It never fails to amuse Sam that Steve eats a disturbing amount of food.

_ >> Hilarious _

_ >> I'll pay you back if you bring some over :) _

_ >”Sam”: pay me in your old timey candy stash and you got a deal _

_ >>Done _

_ >”Sam”: :D _

\-- --- --

In the meantime, Steve decides it wouldn’t hurt Bucky to have a shower. His hair is greasy, and he smells like old sweat. It might help him feel better, since being dirty never helped anyone’s mood. 

He picks out a pair of loose sweatpants and a large sweatshirt, hoping that the clothes are big enough. He places them on the bathroom counter, as well as some underwear and a plain white undershirt. 

The water from the shower is cold when Steve tests it on the inside of his wrist. He turns up the temperature before returning to the living room to get Bucky. 

Bucky still is slumped on the couch, eyes closed. He looks like he's sleeping until Steve starts moving the blankets from off of him and Bucky tries to keep his eyes open to watch him.

“Come on, Buck. You need a shower.” Steve urges, trying to be firm but trying to avoid ordering Bucky around. 

Bucky still doesn't get up. Other than the fact Bucky occasionally focuses on him, he's either unwilling or unable to do anything. 

So Steve guides him to sit up on the edge of the couch and then, carefully, onto his feet. Bucky doesn't help, but he's not making the task harder… it's some kind of improvement.

Steve will take it at this point.

Walking Bucky to the other side of the apartment is a challenge, but not impossible. He leans most of his weight into Steve, which isn't much right now.. It's been about two months since Bucky was last in a hospital, but even then he weighed less than Steve. Also, the serum really helps Steve keep Bucky steady whenever he stumbles. (Which is more often than Steve likes. It takes too long to get Bucky into the bathroom).

It's working out relatively well until Steve nudges Bucky further into the bathroom after he opens the door. 

He doesn’t hear the low sound Bucky makes over the pounding water of the shower. Steve closes the door to keep the steam in before turning back to face Bucky.

Bucky still hasn't moved enough to give Steve space to help, so Steve gently pushes a little on Bucky’s right shoulder. He takes half a step forward before stopping. 

“Buck,” he sighs. He doesn’t want to manhandle Bucky around like this, but he's not responsive to anything Steve tries to do.

Steve has no idea anything is wrong when he gets Bucky to lean against the marble counter so he won't fall over. It's not until he starts to take off Bucky’s long sleeve shirt that Bucky's breath hitches. 

“What's wrong?” Steve stops, but Bucky doesn’t say anything. 

“I'm not going to hurt you, but you really should take a shower. Would you like to undress without help? I'll wait outside.”

Eyes downcast, Bucky doesn’t even look at him. Still, Steve leaves like he said he would, hopeful that Bucky will be more comfortable by himself. 

He waits for ten minutes before he knocks on the door. 

“Bucky, can I come in?”

No response. 

Steve opens the door. Bucky is exactly where he was when Steve left, fully clothed. He's not going to back down from this. Steve had to change the sheets on his bed and he needs to get Bucky to eat something before this turns into something he can’t handle. (The last thing anyone needs is Bucky back in a hospital. The hospital staff hates dealing with him).

“I'm just trying to help you, alright?”

Bucky jerks away from him when Steve attempts to take his shirt off for the second time. Unbalanced, Bucky's left hand gouges the wall when he tries to stop his fall. He ends up on the floor anyways, and whines when Steve approaches him. 

Already Steve feels the burn of frustration in his chest. He clenches his jaw tight and this time when Bucky draws back, Steve ignores him and works on peeling off Bucky's shirt. 

He feels like a monster with Bucky cowering before him like this, but the sooner Steve gets this done the sooner it will be over.

“You're doing great, Buck.”

He's not, really, but he's still not actually fighting Steve yet. A small mercy. Bucky has his eyes shut and he’s shaking, bad. He's gasping behind clenched teeth. 

The next thing to go is a t shirt, which looks like it's seen some wear and tear. He's seen Bucky without a shirt on before, but every time it feels like a punch in the gut to see the immense amount of scar tissue that spans his left shoulder. What's worse is that Steve knows he hasn't scarred from anything since he got the serum. His bullet wounds didn't leave a permanent mark that stayed for longer than a few months. The amount of damage that had to be done to do this to Bucky… 

(He's seen the videos of what they did to him. He's heard those same people in court, trying to defend their own unforgivable behavior before a man they stripped of everything he once was.)

“Bucky, you need to undress so you can get in the shower. Can you do that for me?” He wants to at least give Bucky some privacy.

This is a mistake.

“Sir,  _ please _ .” 

Steve recoils back, horrified. The first words Bucky says to him in days and he's begging Steve not to do this. What does Bucky think he's going to do-?

Bucky is on his knees before him, head bowed, and half naked. He's trembling and whining, panicked and desperate. 

“Oh, Buck-” 

Bucky flinches back like Steve hit him and he hunches over even more.

“I'm not going to touch you, I swear. I just want you to take a shower, but you gotta take off your clothes.” Jesus fucking christ. Bucky thinks he’s going to- he can't even think it- take advantage of him. Bucky expects that kind of treatment from Steve because he's been in this kind of situation enough times to think he knows what's going to happen next . 

Bucky cringes, but obeys. Steve stands to the far side of the bathroom, very clear to not look at Bucky.

“Just leave your clothes on the floor and get into the shower. You can stay in as long as you want.”

The shower curtain rustles, and then he hears Bucky make a sound that he best describes a as purr. A near- constant rumble of contentment. 

Steve backs out of the bathroom. Well, his water bill is going to spike. But if Bucky loves hot water that much, Steve is more than willing to let him stay in there for as long as he wants.

\-- --- --

By the time he makes it out of the shower, his mind is all fuzzy again. Changing into clean clothes takes more effort than he expects, and afterwards he’s exhausted and fighting to stay awake. He’s already spent most of the day asleep- is it even still the same day? He doesn’t know. He never knows the date and without that piece of information he has no point of reference to work from. 

\-- --- --

He must have been in the bathroom for too long because Rogers helping him to his feet. Again…? He can’t remember what happened before he took a shower. That missing gap of time is important, somehow. It always ends up that what he can’t remember is what he needs to know the most. 

( _ He has the distinct feeling of deja vu when they tell him why they’re going to take these distracting fragments-no, memories- away from him. It’s just instinct at this point, a half-formed protest that he can’t explain in words, only that it makes sense to feel both fear and anger at this news-) _

Someone pushes him to lie on his back. He grabs the hand on his chest- it’s an automatic response. His eyes open- when did he close them?- and he finds himself staring into the clear blue eyes of- of… 

( _ He can’t look away from the new handler.  _

_ Right now the man is standing on the opposite side of the room, talking with Dr. Lukin. The Soldier should be obeying the technicians; he’s not supposed to be distracted.  _

_ “Soldier,” one of the techs snaps at him. He adjusts in the chair so the tech can finish stitching up the gash that runs across his right flank, but his gaze is still locked on the handler Dr. Lukin had introduced to him moments ago.  _

_ The new handler has yet to do anything more than glance in the Soldier’s direction and for reasons the Soldier cannot explain, this has more of an impact than it should. Something about the handler is important. The handler- he needs to at least pay attention- _

_ “Focus, would you?”  _

_ The burn of antiseptic spray doesn’t even cause him to twitch. But he’s not causing trouble, so the tech decides to leave him be. _

_ And then the new handler stops right in front of him, and the Soldier meets sharp blue eyes- familiar, achingly familiar and he  _ **_knows_ ** _ him. He’s never felt this way about a handler before, this- he can’t explain it- strong need to be right here with the blue-eyed, blond haired man.  _

_ The handler must be pleased, for he flashes perfect teeth in a smile. He's well dressed, radiating confidence unlike most do when they first stand face to face with the Soldier.  _

_ “Good work on this mission, Soldier. That was a perfect example and I expect to see more important work like this in the future.” _

_ “Anything, sir.” The praise combined with the Handler’s clear approval has him wanting more.  _

_ The room melts into soft black as the handler says this, the sedative quick-acting once it hits his heart. The Soldier misses how Dr. Lukin and this new handler share look. _

_ “Yes, I think this is going to work out very well.”) _

He jerks awake, fighting down panic. A turmoil of fear and pain and, most confusing, betrayal that comes back every time he thinks of his last handler. He can’t get himself under control. It's too small here- Rogers looks too much like  _ him _ . 

Before he even fully process what he needs, he is out in the cold winter air, closing the window behind him. Rogers lives on the third floor, so the drop is only a manageable thirty feet. Both the night and the cold temperatures leaves the streets empty, so no one is around to see him. Still, he flips the hood up on his sweatshirt, shoves his hands in his pockets, and goes to search for his hidden bag. Finding a good pair of boots is on the top of list of important things to do; the socks Rogers gave him are not effective. 

The bite of winter on his skin helps clear his head, as does the distance he is putting between himself and the small apartment. A deep sigh sends a plume of condensed water into the darkness, gleaming silver in the moonlight. 

Yes, this is better.

_ \-- --- -- _

_ ( _ The few people that are out at this time of night give him a wide berth, and he cannot help the small, predatory curl of his mouth as they pass. _ ) _

\-- --- --

“You’re still coming over for Christmas dinner, right?” Sam asks, digging around Steve’s rather obnoxious stash of candy. “My mom makes great food.” Sam gives him ‘puppy-dog eyes’, as Nat calls them. 

“Of course I’m coming - I’d never miss Mrs. Wilson’s cooking,” Steve replies, amused when the mournful expression turns into one of curiousity. Sam holds up a clear plastic bag filled with colorful candy. 

“A stash of candy i _ nside _ a stash of candy?!” 

“Those are called ‘jujyfruits’,” Steve explains around a mouth of really good pizza - Sam does not disappoint when it comes to local food. “I can afford to have candy now, so I buy them in bulk.” 

Yet another weird thing about being almost one hundred years old. He remembers not having enough money to keep the heater on, much less money to waste on candy when he could buy actual food. But Sam takes it all in stride, all too willing to keep teasing Steve about his habits while eating all his well-earned candy. 

Sam picks out a green one, peering at it before he eats it. “This is like… three pounds of candy just in this bag!” He shakes the bag for emphasis, but tosses it to Steve when he reaches for it. 

“Well… it was a five pound back when I ordered it,” admits Steve, taking a handful out. Sam’s eyebrows rise even higher. 

“It’s like dating a squirrel. Do you have a stash buried under a tree somewhere?” 

Steve thinks about the box of non-perishable food and other important items he has in the back of his closet. 

“Not a tree.”

Sam rolls his eyes, but his grin is affectionate. Steve sorts out the candy in his hand into colors before eating all the green ones.

“These used to taste like mint, back when I last had these.” It isn't so much of of a shock to him when he eats them now, but the first time he tried one he spit it out in surprise.

Sam looks disgusted. “Eww. I'm happy with the lime- oh look, smarties!” Steve’s box of candy has all different kinds of candy from the 1920s to the 1940s, but he was pleased to see smarties are still in circulation. Those he just buys from the store when he goes grocery shopping. 

“But seriously, my parents are going to be over and probably Sarah,too, if I had to guess. She has probably the biggest crush on you I have ever seen from a teenager.” Sam laughs at the very predictable blush that heats up Steve’s face. 

Thankfully, it sounds like it is going to be a very small Wilson family get-together. Steve would like to avoid the awkwardness that surrounded last Thanksgiving dinner.

“That sounds great; I'll be there.” 

Sam stops going through Steve’s candy and joins Steve on the couch, snuggled up on his left side.

“You better bring some apple pie or I'm pretty sure my father is going to fight you and he'd be determined enough to kick your ass.” 

Steve laughs. “That sounds like an unfair fight to me. I've got what, twenty-no, thirty years on your father?” 

“Mmm… and like a hundred pounds of muscle.” Sam lays his head on Steve’s shoulder, somehow still managing to look disapproving. As if Steve would actually show up to Christmas dinner without bringing something. 

“Something like that,” agrees Steve. He shifts around until he's sprawled on the couch, and Sam, yawning, adjusts to be be between Steve and the back of the couch. 

“Are you tired?”

Sam cracks open an eye. “Hell yeah. It's been a long day arguing with people.” He pokes Steve’s ribs, grumbling. “Not everyone is blessed with the ability to only need five hours a sleep day after day.”

“Hm… I should just bring you with me. Six feet of handsome super soldier might help my cause.”

“You want me just because of my looks? I'm hurt!” Steve gasps with mock horror.

Sam grins, looking up at him. “Have you  _ looked  _ in a mirror lately? And then when people start to disagree you look at them with those sad blue eyes and I guarantee even the most heartless bureaucrat will have to approve the funding.”

“Just tell me where and when you want me to show up. I could show up with a puppy if you think that would help,” Steve offers, only half teasing. He would do whatever Sam asked to help the VA get more funding. 

“No puppies. As cute as that would be, I don’t think the world is ready for that.” Sam breaks off, yawning. He says something else, but mutters it into Steve’s shirt. 

“Do you want to sleep in an actual bed?”

Bucky disappeared again, this time out of Steve’s window. He didn’t lock the window again, just in case Bucky wanted to use that as an entrance. Steve did bring his shield out here with him in the living room earlier this morning, just in case. 

“No… this ‘s good. If you’re good with it.”

This is more than okay; Steve is content. Sam is more than happy to fall asleep right in here, tired after a long day of work.

“I love you.” Steve kisses Sam’s forehead, and Sam hums in response. 

Steve is still worried about Bucky, but he can also be a decent boyfriend. He can take a break from trying to fix all the issues that land in his lap. He deserves a break, and so does Sam. He loves Sam, and would like to enjoy tonight.

\-- --- --

How can you love a person for who they were? Steve can’t figure out how to make sense out of it. He loved Bucky- but does he still love him? He can’t lie to himself and say that he loves everything Bucky is right now, because how can you love someone who doesn’t accept love from anyone? He can’t love Bucky like it’s 1938 and they’re both sharing a bed to keep warm during the night. He can’t love Bucky like they’re watching each other’s backs during a firefight in Europe. He loved Bucky, but Bucky isn’t really himself anymore. He’s a different man sharing a face and name with a man he fell in love with. 

Steve still loves Bucky, though. It’s a weird sort of love, the kind that has him hoping that maybe one day Bucky is going to return his smile, grey-steel eyes warm and friendly again. Loving someone who doesn’t love you back is a hit in the face, but Steve doesn’t know what else to do. 

What else can he do?

\-- --- --

December 24th finds Steve over at Sam’s place, baking enough cookies for all of the military, it seems. Sugar cookies are Steve’s favorite, and more than a few playful fights break out whenever Sam turns around to find yet another  _ goddamn cookie being eaten _ . 

“You’re the ‘Very Hungry Caterpillar’!” Accuses Sam, smacking Steve with the oven mitt. 

The reference doesn’t mean anything to him, so Steve snatches another one, unfazed.

_ Smack! _ Sam uses a towel this time, and manages to hit his butt.

Steve yelps, turning wide blue eyes in Sam’s direction. His look of innocence, however, is ruined by the cookie he still has in his hand, and the green icing that has stained his lips. 

“You’re a menace, Rogers.” Sam threatens him without any real heat. “Stop eating my cookies or I’ll be forced to hurt you.” 

Unashamed, Steve inhales the cookie he has in his hand and licks off the icing he has smeared on his fingers from grabbing one from under Sam’s nose. “What’s a very hungry caterpillar?”

“A very popular children's book about a caterpillar that eats pretty much everything he can get his hands on before he turns into a butterfly.”

“What if I'm turning into a butterfly? I  _ need _ these cookies, Sam.” Steve pouts, but Sam sees the way he side-eyes the cooling rack of cookies.

“You've already had your transformation in the forties, greedy bastard. “ Sam moves around the kitchen table to defend his cookies, scowling. Steve grins at him. 

“Would it be any consolation that I think your cookies are the best cookies I've ever had?” 

Sam arches an eyebrow at him, not amused. “You will say that about literally anything edible as long as it isn’t growing enough mold to need a name.”

“Okay, I'll admit that.” Steve puts a few drops of red food coloring into a bowl filled with icing. He reaches for the spoon before Sam knocks his hand away.

“You just licked your fingers! Go wash your hands, you  _ heathen _ !” 

Steve, laughing, steals a kiss from Sam on his way to the sink. Sam mixes the red food coloring, grumbling about how not everyone has infallible immune systems. He admires the view, though, as Steve turns his back to Sam to wash his hands. Flour dusts his grey sweatshirt from where Sam managed to tag him with a hand print. 

Sam has flour in his hair, cookie dough stuck to most surfaces in his kitchen, sugar  _ everywhere _ , and he couldn't be happier. His house smells like spices and Christmas. Faint Christmas music flows from his ipod speakers, and the tree in the corner of his living room sparkles with bright lights.

The timer goes off. Sam turns off the oven and places the last batch of cookies on the stovetop. Steve is more excited than anyone has a right to be when Sam lets him use edible glitter on the snowflake-shaped cookies. 

Icing cookies something Sam enjoys doing. Not only do they look amazing, but people always are so happy to have cookies during the holidays. He already made a huge batch earlier in the month for the VA, so these are going to family. 

And apparently quite a bit of them are on the fast track to Steve’s stomach. 

“ _ Steven Grant Rogers! _ ”

\-- --- --

Christmas with the Wilsons means more to Steve than he ever thinks he could express to Sam. The warmth of spending time with family during this time of the year is something he’s been really missing. Paul and Darlene treat him like part of the family, and Sarah and Sam’s bickering reminds Steve of time spent around the Barnes household.

Sam’s parents are delighted with Steve’s present, a painting he did of the National Mall one early, snowy morning. Steve and Sam’s joint gift to Sarah is a huge basket of notepads, spirals, pens and markers, and pretty much everything a studious college student like Sarah enjoys. The highlight is Sarah’s present to Steve; a stuffed-animal golden retriever wearing a very impressive homemade replica of Steve’s USO costume. She blushes as she accepts a hug from Steve, something Sam teases her about for the next hour. 

Dinner is a wonderful, social event. Steve was banned from helping out in the kitchen along with Sarah, so he spends the time doing increasing ridiculous things with her for the internet. (Apparently one of her vines goes viral by the time dinner is ready). 

\-- --- --

Steve doesn’t think of Bucky at all until the Wilsons leave late in the afternoon, and isn’t that a bit of a guilty shock to him. Then he feels sheepish for feeling guilty. He can allow himself a bit of a break. Besides, Bucky has been gone for a few days already. 

Sam interrupts Steve by giving him a massive hug.

“Thank you so much.” Sam has thanked him so many times already since he opened Steve’s Christmas present to him, a considerable anonymous donation to the Veterans Affairs with nothing but a note that said ‘Merry Christmas, Sam’. 

“You’re welcome.”

Steve should be thanking Sam for all of this. He never realized how much he missed spending time with his family until he met the Sam Wilson. 

They share a kiss that tastes like hot chocolate.

\-- --- --

He shivers at the crunch of bone under his hands, epinephrine and norepinephrine rushing through his system. The bullet that clipped his shoulder stings, but it’s a pleasant kind of burn. The man in his grip jerks, his cries of pain turned unintelligible with a shattered jaw. The armed agent rushing through the door goes down with two shots, one to the knee and the other to his right humerus. His gun flies out of his hand, unable to hold anything in his dominant hand.

He has enough ammunition to incapacitate all threats. Clean shots to the head are safer, but they don’t deserve that kind of mercy- it's not satisfying. Rolling his shoulder to keep the muscles from stiffening up, he grabs the man trying to crawl away from him. The man makes increasingly panicked noises, unable to speak. The agent on the ground lunges for his gun on the floor in front of him. He puts a bullet in the agent’s other hand, message clear. Don’t get the gun. The agent stays on the ground this time.

“Enough,” he snarls, yanking the tech to his feet with him. The tech doesn’t have the training to take on the average mugger, much less him. It doesn’t stop him from trying to kick at the Soldier, eyes wide and rolling with fear. The kicks don’t hurt and they aren’t coordinated well enough to do any kind of damage, but he breaks the man’s right clavicle with his metal hand. Not a man well acquainted with pain, for he screams, choking on the blood welling up in his mouth. 

“Stop fighting. Do this right the first time and I’ll kill you with a bullet to the back of the head.” He all but throwing the man in a chair at a desk. “Fight, and I’ll make sure your children can’t recognize you when I force you to watch me kill them.” 

He doesn’t need to kill the man’s children; they’ve done nothing as far as he is concerned. But he can’t lie and say he wouldn’t enjoy more blood on his hands. The man knows this about him. At some point anyone will do to sate his desire for violence. (But the downed agent who thinks he is getting away with calling reinforcements is going to bring at least ten more targets into his crosshairs. That should be enough for him to handle for the day. Let them land a few hits before he rips them apart).

The desperation and horror on the tech’s bloody and bruised face let him know he has full cooperation. He tries to speak, most likely to beg the Soldier to spare his children. (He wouldn’t have even known the man had children if he didn’t have a picture of them on his desk). 

“The key and code to the medication safe.”

Not what the tech expected, but he reaches out with his left hand and scribbles down a long string of alphanumeric code on a report laying on the desk, slow and messy because he rendered the man’s writing arm useless. No matter. It should give the support team a chance to make this interesting. Maybe-hopefully- they’ll give him a good fight. He’s itching for more carnage.

“Up.” He hauls the tech to his feet. The tech thinks he misses the glance he shoots past the Soldier. He’d have to deaf and blind to miss the gasps the agent makes and the clumsy lunge for him. 

He turns. The agent drops, the air knocked out of him by the Soldier’s well placed punch. A knife cuts through his kevlar before he twists the tech’s arm far enough to break it. It’ll take more than two men rushing at him at the same time to stop him, but the puncture wound is going to slow him down.

He knocks the tech onto his knees. The man, sobbing, claws at the Soldier in a last attempt to delay the inevitable. The man has outlived his usefulness.Pushing the tech’s head down with the barrel of the gun, the Soldier pulls the trigger.

The gunshot is loud over the sound of the agent drowning in his own blood.

\-- --- --

Only eight men arrive to take him down. He almost feels insulted. He toys with them for longer than necessary, picking them off one by one with only his hands. For his trouble, he has to dig out shrapnel out of his thigh and lower back from a frag grenade afterwards.

\-- --- --

Breaking into the safe takes a while, but only because two of his fingers are broken from blocking a hit that would have knocked him out. He’s dizzy from blood loss, making the code swim on the ripped page. 

Vials of sedatives and paralytics smash on the floor when he drops them. Painkillers and epinephrine go into his bag, wrapped up in one of Roger’s sweatshirts to keep them from rattling around. 

When he's cleaned out the storage unit meant for his weapons, he destroys every single hard drive he can find. Then he rigs enough explosives to the supporting beams in order to reduce this hell to rubble.

\-- --- --

(He can't walk past the room where they ‘recalibrated’ him whenever he malfunctioned. 

The whole building explodes once he hits the detonator, and that's enough for him.)

\-- --- --

_ Death would be an ample compensation, _

_ Even if it’s my demise, _

_ But heaven doesn’t want me... _

_ Head to toe in blood and perspiration, _

_ I would wipe the tears and lies, _

 

_ But heaven disowned me, _

_ Now heaven won’t know me!” _

_ “Mourning Star” by Gemini Syndrome ; Lux _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, so sorry for taking forever! But this is 9k words, so I hope I am forgiven? 
> 
> Hm... I wonder what's going to happen next? I'm sure Steve doesn't approve of all of this violence.... but Bucky has spoken more words to his victims than he has in an entire week to Steve? What does it all mean?! (hee hee I'm actually starting to get a plot going)
> 
> Comments make my day <3 Be warm and safe, okay?
> 
> Also, Gemini Syndrome has a really amazing album, "Lux". Great lyrics and his voice is great ;3


	4. "Lost it All" by Black Veil Brides

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Flashbacks, dissociation, victim blaming (Bucky about himself), throwing up, manipulation (flashback), past rape/non con (flashback), medical malpractice/torture (flashback).
> 
> Summary: Bucky has a bad day. Food is still a complicated subject for him. Steve tries his best to help, but he's equally lost.
> 
>  
> 
> Chapter 3, 4 and 5 are going to be pretty rough, but I promise chapter 6 is going to look better <3

 

_ “I ruled the world,  _

_ With these hands I shook the heavens to the ground, _

_ I laid the gods to rest. _

_ I held the key to the kingdom,  _

_ Lions guarding castle walls, _

_ Hail the king of death.” _

\-- --- --

**CNN Headline: Abandoned Blown-up Building was Hydra, Officials Confirm**

># no one is saying it was Bucky #but it was bucky 

>>Jesus. 11 dead. Is anyone going to stop him?

>>>….why would we? He's cleaning up the scum that is Hydra and let's be honest, it probably gives him peace of mind to personally kill his tormentors. Everybody wins. FBI doesn’t have to lose agents/resources trying to take down Hydra and Bucky gets to sleep at night. 

I'm not exactly comfortable with Bucky running around with a gun since he's still TWS, but… who's going to tell him to stop? (I'd love to see THAT conversation) No one wants to mess with him. I say let the guy be, unless he kills someone innocent. 

>>>>Haha good luck asking him to stop.

Police: Hey Mr. Winter Soldier, I'm going to have to ask you to-

TWS: *looks at them with that patented dead eyed, laser stare*

Police: to, um- you really shouldn't be-”

TWS: *glares*

Police: Y-you know what? Keep up the good work, pal

TWS: *smirks*

Literally how this is going to go down ^^^

\-- --- --

“ _ Shit _ !”

Steve almost drops the pan when he turns around and spots Bucky on the other side of the kitchen table, leaning against the wall.

“Sorry, I didn’t realize you were here.” Steve turns off the stove as he apologizes. It’s been two weeks since Bucky last was in his apartment. He’s thankful he didn’t have to deal with Bucky on New Year’s. Fireworks still make Steve jumpy; he can’t imagine how Bucky would react.

He slides the omelet onto his plate before placing the hot pan back onto the stove. Bucky eyes Steve’s food, something Steve has never seen him do before. Creeping closer, Bucky’s gaze flicks to Steve before he stops at the edge of the kitchen counter. Steve decides to take the chance. 

“Here, Buck. I can make another one for myself,” Steve pushes the plate to the far edge of the counter and backs up to turn the stove on again. The silence stretches. Steve is about to chalk it up as another failed attempt when Bucky approaches. He picks up the plate and retreats with it to eat.

Steve remembers the toast before the toaster dings, and pulls it out manually. He doesn’t want to startle Bucky from eating breakfast.

Steve steals glances at Bucky as he cooks, careful not to stare too long. He looks… calmer. The set of Bucky’s shoulders isn’t tight with his usually wariness, but more relaxed. Bucky is wearing one of Steve’s sweatshirts, one Steve gave him before he disappeared. They need to shop for some extra clothes since Bucky doesn’t really have anything to wear. 

Steve takes a plate full of toast over to Bucky, placing it down on the table before him. The sections on Bucky’s metal arm snap shut as Bucky leans over his plate, shielding his food as if he expects Steve to take it away. 

“You can eat as much as you’d like,” Steve encourages, giving Bucky space. “They’re plenty more where that came from.”

Bucky looks over him, suspicious- he’s searching for signs of anger. Finding none, Bucky grabs a piece of toast, again with his left hand. He eats with his right hand, so it doesn’t make sense to switch everything from left to right every time he reaches to grab something-

If Bucky is going to get hit, he’d want it on his more durable prosthetic instead of very breakable fingers. 

Frowning, Steve returns back to the stove to tend to his own omelet. Since Bucky doesn’t talk much- well, almost never, Steve finds himself obsessing over Bucky’s reactions and body language to decode what’s going through his mind. He knows Bucky analyzes everything Steve does as well, something Bucky learned to do from his handlers. Another act of self-preservation Bucky had to pick up in order to try and minimize the amount of punishment he would receive. Steve’s been reading some old files over again, anything to keep his mind occupied as Bucky disappeared after who knows what.

Steve reads a lot of Lukin’s work. He was both Bucky’s handler and leading  psychologist for years before Pierce stepped in line to take over as main handler. Lukin and Pierce were the two men in control of Bucky at the time of the fall of SHIELD. Lukin sits rotting in the Supermax prison in Colorado, serving multiple life sentences; Pierce is dead, thankfully.

From what Steve can infer, Lukin was Pierce’s equal concerning the Winter Soldier, their comraderíe strengthened as Pierce proved himself an effective handler. Manipulative and charming, Pierce differed from Lukin’s methods of brutal punishment and psychological conditioning. Pierce was the one who worked to finetune the framework of Bucky’s conditioning after Lukin used fear and pain to teach the learned behavior. Other handlers existed, but the most powerful team was under these two.

And to think that he shook Pierce’s hand- Steve had respected him, even. 

“Thank you.”

Bucky’s voice brings Steve out of his thoughts. Slowly, Bucky puts his dishes in the sink, unsure what to do next.

“Anytime,” Steve replies with a smile. He doesn’t want to patronize Bucky, and he hopes he sounds less awkward than he feels. He busies himself by washing their dishes by hand, half his attention focused on Bucky as he pokes around the living room.

\-- --- --

Rogers-  _ Steve _ , damn it- is in a good mood today. To be fair, he's feeling very relaxed himself. He took half dose of diazepam, just enough to take the edge off his anxiety and make everything pleasantly distant. As long as Steve doesn't go through his backpack that he has in the closet, he'll be fine. 

(He has the distinct sense that Steve would not approve of his stash of medication and weapons. Most of them are from Hydra bases and safehouses, a few are from his stashes he's hidden in the local area. Knowing that he has his guns and knives within reach keeps him from pacing and checking the security of the apartment as often.)

So far, it’s going well. Steve didn’t punish him for showing interest in food- Steve’s food, to be precise. He was expecting some kind of reprimand, even just a verbal correction that he was looking at Steve’s food and that it was not his. He couldn’t breathe for a while when Steve, nonchalant and ever so careful, gave up his food without a second thought. It still could be a trick. 

Maybe Steve’s trying to understand the extend of his failing conditioning by letting the mistakes build up, and then he’ll really be in for it when Steve decides he’s had enough bad behavior. Or maybe he should know what Steve wants from him, but how is he to know if he can’t remember?

Not remembering was not a good excuse. If he was lucky, his handler gave him a mild correction, nothing that wouldn't heal by the next day. If the handler was impatient or angry, his mistakes cost him. Worse of all was one field handler’s way of not punishing him right away, just letting him wait, dread and fear of anticipation was almost as bad as the eventual explosion of temper. He'd do everything he could to be good, but sometimes he couldn't tell what he should be doing. Every time the handler touched him, he'd stiffen, waiting for his punishment that took too long to arrive. He  _ knew _ he wasn't behaving, but without any guidance, he didn't know what else to do. He'd flinch at every move by the time the handler was done playing games, wishing that he could beg for the waiting to be over, for the false disinterest to end so the fear would  _ stop hanging over his head _ \- 

“Bucky?”

A voice cuts through the panicked haze, and he lets out a ragged breath. He keep his eyes closed, hands resting on his quads. He is on his knees for his handler- as he should be. Bares his throat a little in willing submission. He's pretty sure this handler hasn't hurt him before, but he's new and that's even worse because what if he's doing this all wrong? He has no idea what to expect; what should he prepare for? Some liked him to stay silent and still, accepting whatever they did with a quiet passiveness. At least he could escape during that, the pain reaching ? levels when he hid from his own body. He could do that well, and sometimes that got him rewards after for being good. Food or water, most of the time. Or gentle touches that were so nice he felt like he was melting. If they didn't surprise him, he was  _ perfect _ . 

A man…. He can’t remember his name- but he was a member of the support team. He liked the Soldier angry, spun up on post-mission adrenaline high. That man was violent and unpredictable. He'd encourage the Soldier’s aggressive behavior with unfair punishment, baiting him with a mocking smile. It was a game among that team. Which one could get the Soldier to beg first? Muzzle him, tie him down and have their way with the infamous Winter Soldier. Waited until his snarls and growls of fury turned into whimpers and cries of pain until he was shivering in terror. Then they'd laugh as he switched focus from fighting them trying to please, whining-  _ begging _ \- low in his throat. Anything to stop the pain -  

“Easy, Buck.”

He knows that command. One of the orders that is easy and mindless if he is calm, but one that invited all sorts of problems when he was erratic. Focuses on unclenching his jaw. He can’t force his muscles to relax. He's trying- why isn't this working?

“You're doing great; stay with me.”

A small burn of anger flares at this, but is quickly smothered by relief. He should be grateful this handler gives him time to obey. He can be good for this handler. No use in trying the patience of the kind ones, he has learned. Don't bite the hands that feed him. 

He's been fed this morning, so be very attentive to the wishes of his handler. Bad behavior showed a disrespect to both his handler and what his handler had done for the Soldier. If he wants to be given praise, he needs to behave. But not to expect anything- that was not how it worked. He's not going to be rewarded for doing what he should have been doing in the first place. 

He breathes in deep, counts to four, and exhales slowly, imagining all the tension falling from him as sand. Again. He keeps tight control over his breathing because everything will go into place once he does. He can be well behaved for this handler. 

“How are you feeling?”

A status report? He can do that. “Functional, sir. No injuries to report.”

The twitch from his handler has him tense up, waiting for the blow. Then the handler sighs, discontent or annoyed. Neither is good. (He is pleased that he doesn’t open his eyes, even though it is easier to read body language and predict mood changes). 

“Buck, I’d like you not to call me ‘sir’, okay?”

“Yes, I understand. What would be preferred?” He dares to ask, suspicious.

He doesn’t feel any anger radiating off the handler as he bites back the ‘sir’ he always clips on to the end of every sentence. This means he has to be attentive to defer to the handler as his superior without a way to verbally acknowledge his understanding of his place. 

“Steve’s fine,” the handler offers. He feels like his heart has stopped. 

Oh, no. He’s not walking into this willingly, but he’s trapped. Shrinks down even lower with a shiver, eyes clenched shut because now he wants to open them so he can see what’s going to happen next- he hates not knowing, not being able to at least gather himself before the punishment begins-

“Please, sir-” he flinches at his mistake of both begging and disobeying a direct order within seconds of being told. “I- No disrespect to you,” he pauses, thinking wildly on proper titles that he is allowed to use, “but please allow an alternative title, please, Captain.” What is he to do? Disobey his handler or ignore the training that screams warnings at him in his head. He’s being tested- that’s the only explanation for why his handler has been doing all of this, letting him sleep and eat and even take a warm shower. All these luxuries to see how far the Soldier will crumble, to see if it dares to be so informal with a handler in such a situation. Calibration this time around is going to be necessary, but painful and stress-inducing. He doesn’t want to be bad; he’s trying to hard to anticipate what to do but it’s been too long since he last had a handler and this is it, he’s going to be punished until he’s begging for forgiveness-

“ _ Fuck _ .” 

Swearing means anger, and he cringes, biting into his lip so the sound he wants to make is muted.

For awful, long seconds, the handler doesn’t say a word. Then he stands up, and the Soldier wishes that his handler would sit down so the Soldier could kneel before him to ask for mercy- not that he deserves it. (He hates it when they tower over him, leering. He’s not a threat to them, why can’t they just understand that he’s not here to cause problems). The handler could hurt him then, and he willingly accept it because he just wants this over so he prove how good he is- he can do it, just let him try, please-

“There has been some miscommunication that we need to clear up, right now.” The handler’s voice has changed, taken on a razor sharp edge. He's  _ furious _ .

The Soldier feels like he is going to throw up all the rich food he ate a short while ago. 

But he can’t because he doesn’t want to be punished for that, too. They’d take away all his food for weeks until he was starving and the doctors and nurses would come to get him and lock him into that chair that held him still so they could shove a feeding tube down his nose or throat. His gag reflex make it more difficult on himself because his body never cooperated at that level of functioning. Choke and fight the sickening, too-much sensation of food filling up his stomach when they got the tube in right. If he threw up then, he’d be in a room full of furious people that had the means to hurt him, and then he’d have to do it all over again and he’d be covered in his own vomit because his head was forced back against the headrest with a strap on his forehead and around his throat. Sometimes his stomach would cramp and reject the food later into the hours it took and the techs would yank him out of the chair and force him to clean it all up because he was worthless and didn’t he know that they were being kind to him by doing this for him? He wasn’t worth having to do the whole process over again because wasting energy and resources was unacceptable and now he’d have to just go hungry until the techs decided if he was good enough-

_ “Do that again and I’ll really give you something to squirm about-” _ he didn’t mean to, he was scared and confused and it hurt, so he snapped at the tech who tried to place the plastic spacer between his back teeth to keep his mouth open. A guard broke his jaw for it, and he did scream when they fed him, this time by forcing a larger tube down his throat that he couldn’t stop choking on. The pain was enough to make him sick again and the guard, having enough of the Soldier’s disobedience, pressed his shock baton to the Soldier’s groin and told him if he screwed up one more time, he’d turn it on. The Soldier went limp then, and focused all his meager energy on keeping the thick, liquid-food down. It worked for a few minutes, but biology won over his desperation. His stomach had to get rid of the food; he couldn't fight it any longer. He would have screamed from the agony, but the sudden shock forced all the air from his lungs- 

Someone picks him up and pins him against something hard with an edge- a table, maybe? He would cry out if he wasn’t- oh, god, he’s throwing up. 

A hand on the back of his head guides him to lean over whatever this is- a sink, it’s a sink- so he just throws up, entire body shaking and his hands too tight on the countertop and the Soldier hopes he isn’t breaking anything because he might not be able to last through his punishment at this rate. Stomach acid burns his throat and his mouth. He focuses on that and the bitter, distinct taste of half-digested food instead of someone touching him. By the time he’s dry heaving with nothing left in his stomach for him to throw up, his legs feel seconds away from giving out but the man behind him is kind enough to support the Soldier so he didn’t make a mess.

“-it, Buck, you’re doing great. Let it happen, baby, you’re sick and that’s okay. I’m right here; you’re safe.”

The soothing voice in his ear is calm, carrying no trace of anything related to frustration. The Soldier clears his throat and spits that out, too. There is an arm around his chest, not too tight but firm, keeping him upright. The man steps back, but the Soldier doesn’t move, breath hitching in his chest. He’s crying, tears dripping down to fall from the edge of his jaw that isn’t broken anymore because that was a while ago- not now, he hasn’t been hit yet. Whimpers escape him too, past his clenched teeth and ragged gasps. How pathetic. His handlers would be right in recalibrating him- the Soldier is worthless to anyone like this. 

“Would you like some water?”

The Soldier doesn’t know, but he nods just in case he is given some now and not later. The man reaches over him and the Soldier flinches away.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” The faucet turns on and then a cup of water is held in his view. He doesn’t grab it, but waits-

“Take it, please.”

The Soldier takes it in his right hand because the glass might slip out of his left hand if he didn’t hold it right. He doesn’t drink, though, because he isn’t stupid and he’s not going to make the mistake of drinking something he hasn’t explicitly gotten permission to drink.

He can feel the man’s ribcage expand when he sighs.

“If you want water, you can drink it. If you don’t want it, you don’t have to drink it.”

Good enough for him, so he takes a sip. Nothing, no pain. Another- his throat doesn’t work; he can’t swallow the water. He doubles over and throws up again, but it’s nothing. His stomach protests against food he hasn’t gotten, trying to remove the source of nausea that was years ago.

The hand on the back of his head isn’t pushing his head down as much as it is the man keeping his hair out of the Soldier’s face. Thankfully, he stops throwing up after a short while, exhausted and cold. The man is speaking to him, but the hand on his side runs along his ribs in slow, firm passes keeps the Soldier very, very distracted. The Soldier wants it to stop, but he says nothing. Up, down, the man’s thumb raises goosebumps in his wake. He’s wearing clothes, but every touch burns like fire through the layers of fabric. He keeps waiting for the hand in his hair to become painful when the man will jerk him in closer.

“I want you to swish this around in your mouth until the taste is gone, okay?” The order cuts through the haze of his thoughts brought on by confusion and panic.

He takes the cup of water again and does as he’s told, running his tongue over his teeth after spitting out the water in the sink, too. Everything feels… not real. He’s floating in a dream full of static instead of bright sensations. Most of the time he doesn’t need to pay his full attention to everything they do to his body, and hopes this man- handler- will be like that, too. 

“Good,” the handler praises- for this man isn’t just a member of Hydra; he’s the Soldier’s current handler, he remembers now. The praise helps, and he relaxes a bit. The hand running along the sensitive skin over his ribs continues. But he doesn’t turn the Soldier around to kiss him or force him down to his knees, and nor does he try to do anything at all that lets the Soldier know how to behave.

“Alright… let’s go sit on the couch and go over what the expectations are going to be, if you’re up for it.”

“Yes, please.” His voice is rough and raw, but the Soldier is relieved and eager to have all of this cleared up. The handler lets go of the Soldier slowly, sharp blue eyes checking over him and his mouth set into a frown. But he lets the Soldier follow him to the couch and he sits down. The Soldier kneels at his side on the floor, ready to apologize and take his punishment-

“What are you doing on the floor?”

He blinks at his handler, eyes darting over his dangerous expression. Shaken, he takes a second too long to come up with a response. 

“...sorry, I don’t- this isn’t correct?” The Soldier apologizes, confused enough to ask questions. Why can’t he do anything right?

If possible, this response inflames the handler’s mood into fury until the blond man smooths out his face with deadly calm. The fear inching up the Soldier’s spine shows just how little he understands what this handler wants from him. 

“Please, sit on the couch,” the man asks. The ‘please’ does not change the fact that this is an order, one the Soldier doesn’t understand the purpose behind it. 

He sits facing the handler, wary and tense. There is space between them, but not too much as to imply that the Soldier doesn’t want to be touched, but not too close to suggest that he’s asking for anything not given to him. The handler rubs his hands over his face, turning to look at his asset. 

“So, while I know you’ve been here for a few weeks and I’ve given you my expectations, I don’t think we’re on the same page.” 

The Soldier has not been attentive to the handler’s wishes, and it’s time he should learn what he should do for his handler. He doesn’t know what he has done to deserve a second chance without being punished. 

“I think that you aren’t willing to tell me when you don’t know what to do, I’ll start by asking you some questions. Then we can work from there, okay?”

The Soldier nods, not speaking so he won’t be hit for interrupting.

\-- --- --

_ Then I lost it all,  _

_ Dead and broken. _

_ My back’s against the wall, _

_ Cut me open. _

\-- --- --

When Bucky agrees, Steve smiles because this is progress. Bucky appears meek and submissive without making eye contact; Steve wants to change that. Maybe opening up to prove that it’s okay to be lost will inspire Bucky to explain what’s going on in his head when he gets quiet and still. 

“Bucky, I’m very confused to why you didn’t like it when I said you could call me ‘Steve’ instead of ‘sir’. Could you explain that to me, please?” Steve starts off with the morning’s issue so it won’t happen again. Steve feels like he’s being condescending as he’s trying to coax Bucky into admitting what’s wrong. This calm he’s trying to project is fake as hell, but he can’t let Bucky know he’s pissed and risk scaring him.Steve needs to know what the fuck not to do because that list is longer than how many people Steve wants to hurt for doing this to a person- to  _ Bucky _ . 

Steve regrets bringing it up again when Bucky stiffens up, blue-steel eyes swimming with horror. Bucky would probably be on the flat on the floor at Steve’s feet if Steve would let him. And doesn’t that make Steve feel even more violent to Bucky’s captors. 

Bucky  whispers, “... not allowed…” His mouth snaps shut afterwards, clear that he wants to disappear into the couch cushions.

Damn it. Did he get tortured for using someone’s first name? 

“No one is going to hurt you for saying my first name,” Steve tries to explain, feeling sick. “But I’m okay with ‘Rogers’ if that suits you better.” How that helps ease Bucky’s piece of mind, Steve doesn’t exactly know, but Bucky looks at him like Steve just told him he didn’t have to stick his hand into a fire after all. 

But Steve has to know  _ why _ . What was the kind of logic that Bucky still holds onto after two years of being free from Hydra?

“Why, Bucky?”

Back to trembling, scared Bucky with two words. No one should be that scared of anything- not someone who has enhanced strength and could have killed every single person who hurt him in the past seventy years, but didn’t because it was beaten out of him. He’s responding to everything with the same amount of stress- maybe he’s overwhelmed?

“The Soldier is not allowed to address superiors with anything but their rank and last name, unless otherwise specified. Use of ‘sir’, ‘ma’am’, and ‘doctor’ is allowed to be substituted for proper address when the Soldier had no prior knowledge of preferred name and title. Military ranks are included in that list.” Bucky says more now than he’s said in most weeks, gaze blank. Steve grows cold as Bucky continues, his voice soft and devoid of any inflections. He has to be reciting this from something. 

“Using a superior’s first name is not allowed, as doing so is disrespectful; the Soldier should be severely discouraged from speaking in such an informal way-”

Steve’s voice catches up with his brain. “That’s enough. I understand.” Enough of making Bucky revisit topics he’d rather not, but doesn’t say no to because Bucky hasn’t been able to say no for almost a century. 

But then there was the descriptor: ‘ _ superiors _ ’ and that needs clarification because if Steve thinks what Bucky is probably thinking, he needs to correct this right now.

“What decides if someone is your superior?” Steve inquires, not trying to seem like he’s interrogating Bucky for answers. 

Bucky sneaks a glance to Steve’s face, shifting his weight. Steve needs to work on keeping tighter control over his expressions. Any negative emotion Bucky finds is going to be misinterpreted because Bucky always thinks he’s done something terrible, even if Steve is just annoyed at his laptop for being slow or some equally trivial issue.

“I- I don’t understand.”

“When you were with Hydra, how did you know if someone could give you orders?”

Bucky considers this for a few moments. 

“They were always superiors…?” He trails off, mimicking the change in tone at the end of a question, even though he’s not asking one. Carefully watching Steve, he amends his statement.

“All members of Hydra were to be respected and obeyed unless it interfered with a standing order.” 

Always. 

Every single person who Bucky interacted with had the authority to order him around and he had to obey them unless he was told, specifically, that he was to not do so. Whether it was Pierce or some low-ranking piece of shit, he was to respect them equally. 

“Is that why you don’t want to call me Steve, because you thought I would get mad at you for referring to me by my first name?”

And Steve thought there was nothing left of his heart to break when Bucky nods affirmative. This is Bucky sitting cross legged on the couch in front of him who would rather be on the floor at Steve’s feet, gaze filled with haunted terror. Bucky who doesn’t even want to say Steve’s name because he’s scared of what Steve will do to him when he messes up- because Bucky probably already thinks he’s in serious trouble. 

“Well, that’s not going to happen, do you understand? I am not ever going to punish you; no one is going to order you around anymore.”

\-- --- --

So the handler didn't like getting his hands dirty. He's had some like that before where they neglected him instead of hurting him. Not that it was better; at least they were paying attention to him when they punished him. 

Pleased, the handler smiles. He looks so much like Pierce it makes his head ache. Younger Pierce, who was so kind and clever, who understood the Soldier. The Soldier knew how to behave for Pierce, who was predictable and collected and calm. 

(He preferred Pierce to Lukin, something he had to keep well hidden because both men were his handlers. Lukin tolerated no mistakes; he was the one in charge of conditioning. The Soldier felt small and insignificant when Lukin was in the room, fear crawling over his skin like he was doing everything wrong- even if he had been good and hadn't made a mistake since he was brought out of cryo-)

“-ky?”

He jumps, then hunches down. He spaced out and didn't listen to his handler when he was speaking. Even Pierce would give him a mild correction for that, with all his leniency. 

“It's okay; I'm not mad.”

He should be. He should be furious at the Soldier for these breaks in conditioning; why isn't he?

Rogers- because the handler insisted that he should be called that- shifts his weight.

The Soldier waits for Rogers to speak.

“I'm trying to help, really, but I know you don't trust me- that's okay, Buck,” he adds on when the Soldier can't suppress his jerk, his heart pounding. Rogers moves like he wants to touch the Soldier, but pulls his hand back before it happens. He probably decided the Soldier wasn't being good enough to earn that. The Soldier almost whimpers at the loss, eager for any kind of contact at this point.

Pierce rewarded him with attention, the gentle interaction the Soldier craves more than anything else. He'd rather be in a room with people getting punished than be left alone, ignored. He prefers to be with anyone than be left alone; if someone was near him there was at least a chance of them being nice- he just had to earn it. 

And Pierce knew how much the Soldier needed it, how hard he'd work for a reward.

Sometimes when Pierce requested the Soldier’s presence at his private vacation houses, he would order the Soldier on his knees at the left side of his nice leather chair in his home office. His handler would work for hours, his left hand occasionally running through the Soldier’s hair or along the back of his neck when Pierce was lost in thought. It always amused Pierce how much the Soldier enjoyed this ritual- he'd do anything to not be in pain or humiliated-

_ The Soldier leans slightly more into the hand on his head, eager for the petting to start up again. It doesn't, but a glance at Pierce’s face shows his handler concentrating on something. He dares to place his hand on Pierce’s leg, eyes locked on his handler. _

_ “Settle.” Pierce doesn’t even look at him. Still, his hand doesn’t move, so the Soldier whines and presses his head against Pierce’s thigh. His handler chuckles, faint lines crinkling around his eyes. Everyone aged while the Soldier was in cyro for close to a decade, Pierce now closer to forty-five than thirty-five. _

_ “Absolutely shameless,” Pierce says, turning his focus on the Soldier. But the hair petting doesn’t occur and this is starting to be frustrating. The Soldier makes. a noise of impatience again, louder, briefly meeting Pierce’s eyes.  _

_ “What do you say, pet?” Pierce admonishes, but no real heat behind his words. He's in too good of a mood to do anything but verbally correct the Soldier.  _

_ “Please, sir.”  _

_ “Good.” Then Pierce is facing him now, still sitting down. “Come here,” he orders, voice low but pleasant. Curious, the Soldier gives in as the hand in his hair guides him to kneeling between Pierce’s legs, both hands resting on the nice leather chair. A tug has the Soldier tilt his head, placing his cheek on Pierce’s thigh. _

_ The Soldier’s chest rumbles in content as Pierce strokes his hair, pleased with the sudden attention. And he can't help the moan of pleasure when fingernails scratch lightly on his scalp. _

_ “You need this, don't you?” Now Pierce runs his fingers along the Soldier’s neck, and he shivers with the pleasure. His handler is relaxed and in a rare good mood, so he's going to capitalize on that as much as he can while he can still get away with it. _

_ “Yes, sir, please.” The Soldier pushes back, seeking more- _

_ The memory changes suddenly- They're on the bed. The Soldier is only wearing his black  uniform pants. Vulnerable and confused, the Soldier struggles away. _

_ “Stop, pet.” Pierce soothes with a smile, but the grip on his hair tightens. The Soldier tries to turn his head. He yelps at the sharp pain in his scalp.  _

_ “What did I say?” Pierce demands, his handler’s tone promising pain if he continues to be bad. _

_ The Soldier’s mind starts to blackout, feeling reluctant acceptance to all-consuming dread in between bouts of blank, empty stretches of absence. _

_ “Please,” he whispers when Pierce pushes him down. “Please, sir.” _

_ It's not his body. It is not him. If he thinks it often enough maybe he'll believe it- _

_ “I'm not going to hurt you. Trust me.” _

_ He can't- he should trust his handler but he can’t, he's lying- he always lies- _

_ “Sir, please. Please please, sir-”  _

_ This pain isn't his, this fear is not for him to keep. He doesn’t have to hold into this- jesus, it's really begging - shut up! _

_ Almost, he can disappear. Something is hurting- it hurts it hurts don’t do this, please- _

_ “You're doing so well.” _

_ He's being so good for him- No, no no no this isn't - he doesn’t- tries to stop shaking- you're only making this harder on yourself, relax, baby-  _

_ He jerks away- _

_ “ _ **_Enough_ ** _!” _

_ The Soldier freezes- he's trying to not fight off his handler but he doesn’t want this- no, please- he whimpers, desperate- worthless- can't do anything right- all his fault- if you had listened to me we wouldn't have to punish you- _

_ But the handlers always take. So he gives and gives and gives and gives….. _

\-- --- --

Bucky stares right through Steve, his eyes darting back and forth following only something he can see.

“Bucky, please! Wake up; it's not real, baby.” Steve pleads, kneeling close to Bucky’s shaking form. He's desperate to pull Bucky out of whatever flashback he’s experiencing, but he doesn’t want to touch him. 

Bucky curls up even tighter over himself with a strangled cry- fuck fuck fuck what it he seeing? Steve wants to help-

“Please, please, sir.” Bucky sobs, startling Steve. He's never heard Bucky speak during a flashback. The words cut deep into Steve’s chest.

He's  _ begging _ whoever it is is to stop hurting him.

“Please, please! I- don't, please, sir. N-n-nno no- sir, please!” Bucky grows more agitated, flinching away from invisible hands. Apologies and pleads tumble from his mouth in nonstop repetition. He blinks as tears run down his unshaven cheeks.

“Bucky, listen to me. It's not real, it's not real anymore.” Steve wipes away his own tears, voice tight with pain he can't take away from Bucky. “You're safe now; they can't hurt you anymore-”

Bucky cries out, gasping. “Ah- stop! No- sir, please -”. Fuck it. Steve’s had enough.

He pulls Bucky against his chest, one arm around Bucky’s shoulders and the other on his back, rubbing in calming circles like he used to do for the kids on his street. 

Bucky whimpers, but doesn't pull away. He's stiff and trembling; Steve can feel his muscles twitching under his hands.  

“It's not real anymore. It's over, baby. You're safe in the apartment. It's not happening- just listen to me, okay?” Steve keeps repeating various forms of ‘you're safe’, ‘it's not happening’, ‘focus on me’, not knowing if this is helping but hoping it is. 

Breath catching in his chest, Bucky cringes. He exhales and the warm air hits Steve’s neck.

“No, no, no,” he moans, twisting in Steve’s arms. “I don't- please, no- stop,  _ stop _ !” He jerks back and Steve can see his face again. Panicked eyes that look ice blue now with fear, tears flowing. 

“It's okay, I've got you. No one is hurting you- it's a flashback, Bucky.”

Bucky blinks, glancing around at the room and down at Steve’s hands resting on Bucky’s arms. His pupils are dilated, leaving only a thin ring of color visible. He stares at Steve like he's seeing him for the first time.

“That's it. Focus on me, okay?” 

Bucky lunges at Steve.

Steve’s back hits the couch, but Bucky isn't trying to fight him. Instead, he tucks his head under Steve’s jaw, right hand twisted in Steve’s sweater. He lets Steve move him around so they are both more comfortable. 

“Is this okay?” Steve asks, unsure how to interpret Bucky's constant trembling. Bucky just presses his face against Steve’s throat. His cold left hand grips Steve’s right bicep. Steve feels oddly vulnerable, knowing that if Bucky wanted to, he could shatter Steve’s humerus with ease.

Even though Bucky stops crying, Steve can feel the tension rising in him. He remains quiet and still, but the quiet whirring from his arm is a dead giveaway as he tenses and unlocks the metal plates over and over again. However, Bucky doesn’t try to leave and Steve stays sitting on the floor, head tilted back against the couch.

\-- --- --

_ I’m just trying to breathe, _

_ Just trying to figure this out, _

_ Because I built these walls to watch them crumble down. _

_ I said, “Then I lost it all.” _

_ Who can save me now?" _

_ “Lost it all” by Black Veil Brides ; Wretched and Divine: The Story of the Wild Ones _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hee hee you thought I was gone, didn't you? *hugs everyone*
> 
> At this time this has not been beta'd because I couldn't wait to post it since it's been too long. I hope you enjoyed and I have another chapter already completely written so that will be up within 2 weeks, hopefully! (I need to give my betas time to look things over instead of running over here to post anyways XD)


	5. "In Chains" by Shaman's Harvest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Flashbacks (violence/death, manipulation), mention of rape/non con.
> 
> Bucky’s getting sicker. Steve and Sam are running out of options besides hospitalizing Bucky- nobody wants that. Brock Rumlow questions Steve’s handling ability.

 

_ “Angel of death and mercy, come take me from this cage. _

_ ‘Cause these four walls and iron bars have been witness to the rage,  _

_ Of a thousand broken hearts and chains. _

\-- --- --

>|Omg have y'all seen that twitter account **How2dateCapUSA** **_@97notdead_ ** ???? So fucking hilarious!!!! I don't know who it is run by, but here are some great highlights.

“Love puppies. Be a puppy. Give Cap a puppy. Be MANY puppies”

“Be cute. Guess what? Everyone is a cutie! (Nazis/neonazis don't qualify c: )”

“Don't kiss Cap in public. Public displays of affection make him uncomfortable ;P”

“Be on this list: Bucky Barnes. Peggy Carter. Sam Wilson. America.”

“Be more free and equal than the United States of America.”

“Step one: Buy Cap food and/or candy. Step two: you got yourself a happy Cap Step 3: win your reward”

“Dress up like Cap’s shield. PS: He cuddles with it sometimes”

“Be a good person <3”

“Things that disqualify you: racism, conservatives… sorry FOX news”

“Be male, female, both, neither, or anything in between. Cap is not picky”

> >>| Omg this has to be an avenger XD I'd say Tony Stark, but I feel like these would be more offensive/embarrassing if it was him.
> 
> >>>| what about cap’s bf
> 
> >>| Bucky? No, I don't think he's the one behind this (he's still pretty messed up poor baby)
> 
> >>>|  no i meant the black guy with the wings
> 
> >>|Sam Wilson? Maybe! I think Falcon and Cap are very cute together <3
> 
> >>>>| Whoever it is, they are so savage. The fox news one made made me laugh! My mom was equally amused. This motivational humor is what I need in my life

\-- --- --

Panic rises as he is manhandled and then pulled down onto something. They must have given him sedatives, for he can’t even open his eyes. He's so very tired. They probably don't even have to secure him since the most he can do is grab ahold of fabric. He feels body heat under his fingers. 

It's hopeless, but he still whimpers as the person pulls him to lie down. No no no no no. He didn't do anything wrong. Why is he getting punished like this? They know how much he hates it- 

Or he hasn't done anything bad and still he has to do this regardless, since the field teams always wanted the Soldier on his knees for them-

They move him around. He has no choice but to allow it, unable to fight off the firm hands on his arms, the back of his neck…

“Is this okay, Bucky?”

What? This isn't-

Oh.

_ Oh _ .

This is… the kind handler. Not Rumlow, but- he can't remember his name. 

He sighs in relief. The handler lets the Soldier lay on top of him, his head resting on the handler’s chest. He tucks his face against the handler’s neck, hiding from the bright light in the room.

This is… okay. He's warm and with the handler holding him like this, no one else is allowed to touch him. 

\-- --- --

Sam stops short when he pushes the door open to Steve’s apartment and he sees the Winter Soldier  _ cuddling _ Steve. Like stretched out on top of Steve, under blankets kind of cuddling. Intimate cuddling.

“This isn't what it looks like,” Steve whispers, blue eyes comically wide. Sam thinks his eyebrows might fly off his forehead at the rate he is raising them.

“Well, it looks like you're cuddling- not that I'm jealous- just surprised.” He whispers back because if Barnes is asleep, he's not going to be the poor soul who wakes him up. 

He didn't think that Barnes would be up for physical contact like the type of touching cuddling requires any time soon- or ever, really. Barnes is so goddamn jumpy that if he thinks someone is going to touch him he either lashes out or shuts down.

Steve winces, but his shoulders relax. Sam isn't the possessive boyfriend-  _ jesus _ , he's dating Captain America who had a thing for Bucky Barnes  _ and _ Peggy Carter. Steve doesn't do simple. Sam rolls with it. (Steve doesn’t really want to talk about the nature of his relationship with Barnes… Sam isn’t going to push the topic since obviously neither Steve or Barnes know what’s going on anymore). 

“I-uh- panicked I guess? Bucky was having a flashback and I didn't want to drug him-” He wilts a little at the glare Sam gives him, but pushes on. “So I just... held him and he calmed down after a while.”

Sam places his backpack down next to the door and hangs his coat up on the closet- it's freezing outside. He waits for the wave of frustration to ebb before he turns back to Steve.

“You're supposed to sedate him if that happens, Steve.” Sam keeps his voice level because he can be calm and frustrated at the same time like a reasonable adult. 

Steve sighs, staring up at the ceiling. “You know I hate doing that - he's had enough people drugging him into the next decade; I don't want to be like them, okay?”

Sam can't stay mad for longer than than a few seconds because it's an old argument that neither of them are going to back down on anytime soon. He sighs, too, and sits in the chair opposite of Steve. 

“I know you want to help him.” Sam concedes before continuing. “But he's still dangerous. Just because you're not Hydra doesn't mean Barnes here isn't going to go for your throat.”

“He's  _ scared _ , Sam, not aggressive.” Steve snaps. Barnes twitches at the sharp tone, sensing a mood change even in his sleep. Apologizing to him, Steve runs a hand through his hair in reassurance and Barnes settles down again. 

Both of them remain quiet to make sure Barnes really is asleep.  

“There is a fine line between fear and violence, one Barnes is well acquainted with crossing.” Sam can't blame him. Fear stems from being powerless and there is no quicker way to control than scaring someone else into giving it up. 

“He wasn't being violent, not even once,” insists Steve. “Just really scared.”

“What happened?”

Steve has bags under his eyes from not sleeping and his mouth is set in that thin line that means he is in over his head. He tells Sam how Bucky scared the shit out of him this morning and how he thought it was going to be a good day when Bucky ate the food Steve gave him. Then he got side swiped by flashback after flashback, going from suffering through them quietly to full on screaming and crying. He threw up everything he ate until there was nothing left and Steve worried when he wouldn't stop. 

“Jesus.” Sam doesn’t have anything else to say. 

Steve nods, unhappy. He keeps running his fingers through Bucky’s hair. Bucky’s metal arm lies across Steve’s chest, catching the light along the sleek edges. He can’t see Barnes’ face, only the back of his head. 

“He doesn’t understand I'm not in charge of him- that I'm not going to order him around.” Steve admits, letting out a ragged breath. Sam would give him a hug, but Barnes is the one in Steve’s arms right now. 

“He's used to having a handler,” he reminds Steve gently. “It's really confusing when suddenly he doesn’t have anyone telling him what to do.”

“He- he kept calling me ‘sir’ so I asked him to please call me ‘Steve’ since I'm not his handler- Bucky wanted to kneel at my feet, he was so terrified of using my first name. He  _ begged _ me to allow him to use something else. Why the fuck would they do that to him? What did they do to make him so terrified of being ‘informal’ or ‘disrespectful’- whatever Bucky called it? He looked like he was expecting me to break something.” Steve blinks back tears and clears his throat, glancing over at Sam. 

Sam does not say that Barnes probably  _ was _ expecting Steve to hurt him for that. And that is the crux of the issue. Barnes seems to be growing more and more anxious the more time he spends here without someone putting him in his place. 

“Well, I assume you didn’t hurt him-” Steve’s eyes snaps to him, horrified that Sam would even suggest such a thing, but Sam waves him off. “It's just going to take a while for him to learn that he's not going to be hit if he does something he thinks he shouldn’t be doing.”

“I just wish he'd believe me when I tell him I'm not going to hurt him.”

“That kind of trust isn't won back easily, Steve, not after what Barnes has been through.” 

Steve frowns, but nods in agreement. Sam decides to doze off a bit, since he got up early covering for Neha who came down with a cold this weekend.

\-- --- --

His phone chirps in his pocket. It's Neha thanking him for covering for her. Sam texts back to tell her no problem, since she was the one who covered for Sam when Captain America first showed up at his door with the Black Widow in tow. She still invites him to lunch once she's feeling better, which makes Sam smile.

“How was work?”

Sam puts his phone on the armrest. 

“Fine. I met with a few of the veterans my coworker works with. I took over her time with her regulars for the morning.” Sam has to be vague, since he's not going to share personal information about them without permission. “The usual ‘how has your week been’, ‘what are something that went well’, ‘what would you like to focus on today’, and ‘what can I do to help’- that sort of thing.” 

Steve nods. He's snuck in during a few of the group meetings, but not for the reasons Sam would like. Steve insists that he's fine and he doesn't need to talk to anyone- like hell.

“It was good. Mornings are quiet, and we all felt good enough to talk outside and get some fresh air.” Sam didn't know all of the vets well, but he could tell that it too a lot of courage for some of them to agree to be out in the open like that where the back of your neck prickles and every flash of sunlight on metal was light reflecting off a gun, every person in your peripheral vision was a threat.

“I didn't want to be outside at first,” Steve adds, understanding the situation. “There was just… too much to process.”

Hypervigilance and paranoia is a huge hurdle to get over, but not needing to look over your shoulder was such a relief, Sam couldn't stop grinning the first time he slept through the night without checking the locks in his house. He still likes his back to the wall and to keep an eye on the exits, but it's a manageable habit now instead of a very serious compulsion that cost him his sanity and sleep.

“I think I want a new apartment.”

Sam looks over, amused. “Another one?” This is the second apartment Steve has lived in since his Shield approved one was shot up by Barnes hunting down Fury. 

“Yeah, I don't think one bedroom is going to cut it for all three of us,” explains Steve. “I want Bucky to have his own space.”

Sam agrees with that. He's not going to be sharing a bedroom with Barnes anytime soon, sorry man.

“I think that would be good.” Giving Barnes his own room to sleep or do whatever could give him a reassuring sense of privacy. And Steve wouldn't have to give up his own bed whenever Barnes was here. Everyone would get more sleep this way. 

\-- --- --

it's sorta weird how quiet Cap has been…. I hope he's okay :(

>He's probably taking a break from the media after the trial tbh

It's been what, two months? I just want to know that he's doing well

\-- --- --

A wave of nausea hits him as soon as he wakes. The light  _ hurts _ \- he pulls a pillow down to cover his head. That helps a little. The sharp agony in his left eye eases, but his stomach rolls with the pounding in his head. Thankfully he hasn’t eaten anything recently.

“You’re awake-”

He flinches at the impossibly loud screech of someone talking, pain levels spiking. The rustling of clothes hurts just as bad- why is he so sensitive?

“Buck?”

He wants to ask the man to stop talking, but he doesn’t dare. So he just curls up further under the blankets and covers his eyes with his arm. Dark is good. 

Someone else starts to talk with Rogers and he whines at the noise. They stop. 

“Bucky, what's wrong?” Rogers asks, keeping his voice soft.

At least he is quieter. It feels like someone shoved a blade through his eye and into his brain- actually, he's pretty sure that would hurt less than whatever is causing this unbearable agony. 

“...head.” 

It takes a lot of focus to speak, his voice nothing more than a raspy whisper. He clenches his jaw tight to avoid throwing up when his stomach twists. 

“Your head hurts?”

He makes a faint noise of agreement. 

“It might be a migraine if he's light and sound sensitive.” The other man adds; he’s familiar… a friend of Rogers’. The lights in the room go out- that helps, but not nearly enough. 

“Do you want me to get you medication for your headache?” 

‘Yes,  _ please _ ,” he begs, hoping that Rogers actually means it. He'll do whatever he is told to get painkillers for his throbbing head. “Please, sir- Rogers, whatever you want, I'll do it- if you would,  _ please _ -”

“Shh, it's alright. I'll get them for you, I promise.”

Obedient, he stops talking. He waits, following the sound of his handler moving items around in the kitchen. Please, please be getting the painkillers. 

“They’re right here, I've got them.” Rogers is back, crouched near his head. “Here's some water, too.”

He hesitates. How is he going to drink the water if he can’t sit up? He doesn’t want to move and get sick- then the painkillers might be taken  _ away _ -

“Just give them to him, Steve. He can swallow them dry; it's not going to kill him.”

He wants to thank the other man, Wilson, when Rogers agrees and asks the Soldier to give him his hand. A few small pills drop onto his palm. He snatches his hand back, swallowing all the pills in seconds. There were two different types, and both left the taste of chemicals on his tongue. As long as he was given at least one painkiller, he doesn’t care what the other ones did to him.

That's not true. He'd be miserable if the pills caused more pain. Or worse, make him throw up the actual painkiller on purpose- then he'd really have to beg. No paralytics: he hated those more than anything. Helpless and unable to move or speak or do anything while they could do anything to him-

“It was just some migraine relief and some anti- nausea medicine. Nothing to worry about. It's all pretty mild, but the relpax might make you sleepy.”

Rogers could be lying. He just wants to believe his handler (handlers?) wouldn't do that to him… 

“Would you like to sleep in the bedroom?”

**No** . 

He keeps his mouth shut even though his skin crawls to think about being drugged and stuck on his handler’s bed. But if that's where Rogers wants him-

“Okay, you can stay here if you'd like. We'll try to be quiet for you.”

Oh, god. He's going to owe them so much for this. He can’t believe how much they are doing for him. 

“Thank you,” he says, overwhelmed. He already feels his body slowing down from the medication. He's trying to come up with ways to thank both Rogers and Wilson when he gives in to the induced fatigue.

\-- --- --

He dreams- or is it a memory?- of the groan the target makes as the Soldier pushes a knife into her heart, feeling the scrape of metal against her easily broken ribs. She grabs at him, nails digging into his leather sleeve. Her gasps are wet with blood. He lets her body crumple to the ground as she dies. 

He kills her children, too. Seven, six, and two years old. None of the people in this house have faces- just a skin colored blur where there should be facial features. It unnerves him.

Where is the husband? He needs to complete the mission objective- where is he? He should have been in the bed… Anxiety rises, clawing and burrowing into his chest. He needs to finish this before he wastes time he doesn’t have.

He backtracks to the bedroom. Nothing. No one hiding under the bed or in the closet. It's a grown man - adult males with families will protect their own. Where is he?! He couldn’t have snuck out. 

Children's rooms are next. Blood on the bed and the carpet. Bodies on the floor where he dragged them out of bed and dropped them where they bled out from slit throats. There is too much blood; it soaks through the carpet and still he steps in puddles.

He's searching through the dining room when something slams into the back of his head. He drops to his knees, vision fading. His ears ring. The next hit snaps his head onto the edge of the table. 

He regains consciousness. Blood cakes the side of his face from where the wood cut into his head. He tries to get up- a foot on his back pushes him down. The father. The last target. Needs to kill him.

“You sick motherfucking son of a bitch!” The man screams at him. “You're fucking dead!”

The Soldier fights off the hand twisted in his hair- he's not coordinated to stop the father from punching him in the jaw. The Soldier’s vision swims, the ground tilting underneath him.

“You killed them! You killed my family,” the man cries. “You'll pay for this, you bastard!”

The Soldier attempts to push the man away- the man breaks his arm. The Soldier throws up. Why is he having a hard time with this? 

“That’s right. Once I'm done with you, you'll be begging me to kill you.”

What- his voice changed? It sounds like… like…?

He pins the Soldier on his back and sits on his chest, limiting his oxygen. Breaks his fingers. Tears off the kevlar and leather, cuts through his cotton shirt.

He can't feel the pain- why can't he feel it? He knows it hurts…

He- he's trying to fight back. He's lost too much blood, sustained too many injuries-

His own blade rips into stomach. Critical damage- he needs-

“... I'm sorry… they made- I had to-”

He shouldn't talk to anyone, but he can’t stop- he's not  _ allowed _ he needs to kill the target. 

“Shut up!”

The man pushes his fingers into the wound. He can't focus on the man's face. It keeps changing- he can't remember...

“I - I couldn't… I had to- no choice…”

He wants this man to understand the things they do to him. He doesn’t want to kill anyone else. 

“...kill me… they'll make…me kill..”

He wants to die. He wants this man to slip the blade into his throat. Screaming, the father shoves the blade between his ribs. 

The Soldier chokes on blood. It's his lung, not his heart. They're coming- he's not dying fast enough-

“... please… hurry-”

Too late. He wants to scream when the father slumps over, a messy hole in his head from a bullet. 

No no no no no no no-

“Tsk tsk, Soldier. Trying to get killed again?”

The medic approaches- no, get away! Leave him alone, let him die. He's too weak to yank out the IV slipped into his vein pumping in awful life-saving blood and a cocktail of drugs.

“What a mess… what would Lukin say about this?” Pulls the Soldier’s hair to make him look at his field handler.

He can't focus on anyone's face… what is wrong? This is wrong-he wants to stop.

He closes his eyes, whimpering. No, not Lukin- he wants to die just let him die here and not deal with the pain-

“Lukin is going to be furious, little toy soldier. You're in for some serious punishment once we get this failure cleaned up.” The field handler teases. “Then it's the chair for you-”

The Soldier sobs in fear. No, please, not that- he can't deal with the agony anymore!

“And then afterwards I bet we'll have some quality time together. Maybe then you'll learn how to grateful for all we do for you.”

“Well, he left us such a fucking hell-hole to deal with. Blood everywhere. Damn lucky a blizzard has shut the area down.” Someone adds, disgusted. 

He's shaking badly. He knows is coming. Please, please he's had enough. He's tired of this. Just let him be- leave me alone!

“Come on, guys. We'll clean this up and deal with our problem later.” The field handler pets his hair before standing up. Blood gets on the handler’s hand. He wipes it off on the carpet. 

“I better get to beat the shit out of him until he's sincerely apologizing for being such a pain in the ass.” One grumbles. 

His stomach clenches. He feels like his limbs are filled with lead. He wants to get away-

“It needs to learn it's place.” 

He whimpers, struggling away when the medic starts to stitch up his gashes. The paralytics running through his veins hasn’t fully kicked in yet.

The handler kneels again, yanking his chin up in an iron grip. He yelps, his injuries protesting. 

“As long as you keep pulling shit like this, I'll keep letting my men have you whichever way they want,” he snarls.

The Soldier shrinks back, consumed by terror. 

“Be bad, get punished. That's how the game works. If this ends up not being enough to convince you to start behaving, well… we could always do it over again. Remember, it could always be worse, sweetheart.”

\-- --- --

It's almost manageable if he keeps them happy. If he does what they ask of him, they don't hurt him as much. He  _ knows _ this and he still can't do anything right.

Lukin tries his best to get him obedient with praise, but it works so much better if it's pain. 

He hates that he feels an unwanted surge of a desire to please whenever he does something wrong. Maybe it's the contrast that is so addicting; he can’t stop.

\-- --- --

He think this much pain should kill him. Have mercy on his broken, bleeding, used body. He still feels hands on him, hear the mocking voices that pretend to calm him. 

He doesn’t want worse. He wants to be good. He'll be good, please. Anything to not suffer through that again. 

They push him into the chair again so he can't remember disobeying orders. He opens his mouth for the bite guard without prompting. Just take it all away. He doesn’t want to remember.

The electricity is agony, but soon enough he doesn’t feel that either.

Blissful, wonderful emptiness.

\-- --- --

_ Warm the ice that fills my veins, pumping ‘til I’m numb. _

_ Lead me out of the darkness where it is so hard to escape from. _

_ All that I’ve been given, I give it to you. _

_ I can’t stand here watching you fail to tell the truth. _

\-- --- --

Bucky sleeps well for the first time in weeks. He’s quiet and still. Almost peaceful, Steve observes. He wakes a few times still clutching his head, so Steve keeps giving him low doses of painkillers to take the edge off. It's enough to get him back to sleep, thankfully. 

Sam points out that Bucky is losing weight. He is. Steve doesn’t know what to do about it. One thing at a time.

“He really should be hospitalized, Steve.”

“No, alright?! He's fucking scared of hospitals and doctors. How is that going to help?” Steve snaps.

“For one thing, they have an entire medical staff dedicated to helping people who are this sick. You, Steve, are one person. You do not have the training nor the mentality to help out Barnes in the caliber that he needs. You're running yourself into the ground for him; that's not helping anyone. He's dependent on you and what is going to happen when you're burnt out and unable to keep providing for him, huh?” Sam hisses back, tired of Steve’s stubborn bullshit. 

Steve stares at him, frozen.

“He's so fucking sick, Steve. Hell, I'm in over my head and it's part of my job to help out vets like this. Suck it up and admit that you need help dealing with Barnes. He isn't eating, he can't sleep unless we drug him, and he's scared to hell of both of us. It's not healthy for him to keep him here as he's deteriorating like this. It's not healthy for  _ us _ to try to do this by ourselves.”

Steve’s words stick in his throat. “I- I don't know what to do-”

“I know, I know.” Sam pulls Steve in for a hug, letting Steve know he is forgiven. “You don't  have to do everything by yourself.”

“Okay,” Steve says, not admitting that he's been alone since Bucky fell; he's a half of his whole, but he and Bucky no longer complete each other anymore. He needs to make this up to Bucky. He needs to apologize for leaving Bucky to be torn apart while he wrapped himself in grief and ice to sleep away his own, selfish pain.

\-- --- --

Steve's always been trying to be the best, the most helpful ever since he could remember. It used to drive Bucky crazy.

_ “You don't have to be perfect at everything, good God!” _

_ It didn't help that Bucky had a knack for picking skills up whenever he needed to learn something new. Steve remembers being stuck in a trench with the Commandos, trying to learn French from Gabe and Dernier. Bucky, sick of Steve’s groaning about not learning fast enough, grabbed him and pushed him face first into the cold mud.  _

_ Dugan and Mortia cheered them on when Steve and Bucky ended up wrestling, covering their uniforms in half of the mud in eastern Europe.  _

_ “You and your goddamn complex!” _

_ Bucky somehow gets Steve into a headlock and no matter how much Steve struggles he couldn't get enough leverage to get out. _

_ “Say ‘I, Steven Grant Rogers, am not perfect and I am not expected to be good at everything’ right now!”  _

_ “Or what?” Steve challenges. Bucky pushes his face closer to the mud, threatening to give him another go. _

_ “Okay, okay! I, Steven Grant Rogers, am not perfect and I am not expected to be good at everything!” Steve yelps and scrambles away from Bucky as soon as he lets go.  _

_ A few minutes later he mutters, “but they said I was a perfect soldier.” _

_ A handful of mud splatters on the back of his head. Bucky lets his head flop against the trench wall with an exaggerated sigh. _

_ “Fuck you, Stevie,” he groans into the dirt. _

_ “Now?” Steve protests, pulling an expression of pure innocence. _

_ They all lose it when Falsworth chokes on his water mid laugh. _

\-- --- --

For two days Barnes suffers through a migraine, hardly moving besides occasionally going to the restroom. He can't be coaxed to eat; he turns down everything they offer him.

He warned Steve that if Barnes goes a fourth day without eating he's going to the hospital. It's still day three, so Steve agreed, albeit reluctantly. Yesterday Sam ordered special dietary additives online and paid to have them delivered overnight.

When the doorbell rings Barnes snarls from under his collection of blankets. He's still hypersensitive, Sam observes when he accepts the package and thanks the UPS guy.

It's the most animated Barnes has been all day, no doubt exhausted and low on energy. He hasn't been meeting his caloric needs for a few days now, and with the wicked fast metabolism Barnes has, it's going to get ugly if they can't get under control. He doesn’t have the weight to spare anymore once his system starts breaking down muscles for energy. 

“What's this?” Steve picks up a container from the box Sam unpacks. 

“It's a calorie additive. I'm hoping to mix this with some juice and hopefully get Barnes to drink it.” He pulls out some fruit juice from the pantry, a cup, and a spoon.

“It's only four hundred calories per serving,” Steve adds, dubious. Four hundred calories is nothing to someone like Steve who needs eight thousand on a normal day. 

“Well, it's a start.”

Sam mixes in some of the powder into the juice, then hands the cup to Steve. 

“Try that and tell me if it tastes weird.” The last thing he needs is Barnes throwing up because this stuff tastes like shit to super-soldiers.

“It's fine, maybe a little thicker than the juice.” Steve gives it back to him after a taste.

Sam decides to cut it with water on the first try just in case. He's not a religious guy, but he's praying to anyone that Barnes drinks this. He really, really doesn't want to try and take Barnes to the hospital. He'd also bet good money that Barnes is equally adverse to a hospital visit. 

Here goes nothing.

\-- --- --

He pokes his head out of the blankets when Rogers pulls over the ottoman to sit on. His head aches, but he can manage it today. They keep the lights off in the living room, but the stovetop light in the kitchen threatens to kick another migraine into appearing. 

“You really need to drink this, Buck.” Rogers holds out a small plastic cup with liquid in it. “Please?”

He takes it, sitting up slowly. It smells like fruit so he tries a sip. It's both tart and sweet, nothing suspicious about it. Rogers encourages him with a smile and a little nod. 

It's gone in seconds. His stomach is empty; he's  _ starving _ . The migraine knocked out his appetite, but now he can keep food down. 

Hopeful, he passes the cup back to Rogers.

\-- --- --

Steve wants to cry with relief when Bucky drinks it all, then looks at him with obvious interest. He makes brief eye contact before Bucky’s gaze darts away.

“Great, I'll get you some more.” He stands up, catching the flicker of surprise in Bucky’s expression. Sam already has another cup ready, both smug and relieved that this is working.

“Don't let him drink it too fast,” he warns. 

Steve brings it over back to Bucky. He hands it off saying, “Take it easy, we don't- slow down!” Not thinking, he reaches out on impulse to stop Bucky from gulping it down and making himself sick.

It's like trying to take a bone away from an animal; they'll fight for it when they're hungry.

Bucky growls and knocks Steve’s  hands away. Then he freezes, staring at Steve. His chest heaves with a shuddered whine of apology.

“It's okay! I made a mistake,” Steve scrambles to ward off the pending panic attack. “I shouldn't have tried to take it away from you; it's all yours, you can drink it.”

Unconvinced, Bucky ducks his head, his entire body shaking. Sam rounds the counter.

“What's going on?”

“I was being an idiot and I tried to grab the cup so Bucky wouldn't get sick from drinking too fast. He slapped my hands away,” explains Steve, grimacing. Sam swears under his breath. 

“You're not in trouble for defending yourself.” He adds, trying to convince Bucky that he isn't going to hit him. 

Bucky cringes, still holding his cup. He keeps making these faint noises that catch in his throat, miserable.

Steve wants to try something. He sits back on the ottoman, careful to keep his hands resting on his knees. 

“Bucky, look at me.” He orders. 

Bucky obeys, lifting his head to meet his gaze. His eyes are wide with fear. 

“I am not mad at you; I made a mistake. No one is going to punish you for protecting your things, do you understand?” 

“B-but I … _hit_ _my_ _handler_.” Bucky forces out, reluctant to argue. 

Steve’s rage is so potent his vision goes black around the edges. He takes three deep breaths and exhales instead of punching something. 

“I am not your handler. You don't have handlers anymore, alright Buck? They're not in charge of you.” He corrects, firm and controlled. Bucky narrows his eyes.

“Yes, Rogers.” He agrees, proving that no, Bucky does not understand at all.

Fuck.

\-- --- --

“God damn it.” Steve groans into his pillow when Sam wakes him to to tell him the news.

Bucky left. He's not in the apartment, no clues to where he disappeared off too. 

Sam shrugs. “He probably got tired of us. I bet he's fine, Steve.” He's on his way to work, already dressed.

“I'm pretty sure he's hunting down Hydra when he's gone; what if he's still too sick?” Steve worries, sitting up with a yawn.

“He's a force to reckon with, sick or not. Seriously, he is more than capable of protecting himself.”

\-- --- --

Rumlow turns around and almost drops his keys. He closes the door but doesn't lock it. Such an arbitrary effort of security with the Winter Soldier sitting on his couch, hidden in the shadows.

He can feel the intensity of the stare boring holes in his back. A thrill of addicting fear runs down his spine, wiping away some of his exhaustion. He misses working with the Soldier, he's not going to lie about that.

“Any particular reason you came to visit?” Rumlow knows he's failing to hide his smile. Either he's going to be tortured and killed or the bastard actually wants something from him. Both seem like better options than he's living now. They were both damn good at their jobs.

Silence. 

Alright, then. It's been over five years since Rumlow was last a handler, but he'd sooner suffer third degree burns again than forget how to read and adapt to the best assassin the world has ever seen. He'll lay off on the bullshit and keep orders to a bare minimum; he'll reassess how best to proceed later. Both of them are rusty. Trying to force the Soldier back into a working team is going to end with Rumlow dead from a broken neck.

He flicks on the living room lights in order to see the Soldier. 

“You look like shit.” He keeps his voice level, even though he's shocked. Rumlow thought the Soldier was staying with Cap, being fed and taken care of. Not skipping meals and running himself into the ground. The Soldier even flinches and averts his gaze from the light like he's hours from being brought out of cryo. He's wearing civilian clothes which only accents how much weight he's lost in the past two years.

“Are they feeding you?” Because Rumlow thought he explained the food/permission issue to Rogers way back during the pre-trial stages and if he thinks that his ‘Bucky’ has gotten past that, Rogers clearly does not know what the fuck he’s doing. 

Hydra don't spend decades and hundreds of thousands- maybe even millions- of dollars and decades on the Winter Soldier to allow his conditioning to fall apart, even with the gain in memories.

“Yes, sir.” That hoarse, quiet voice that Rumlow rarely hears because the Soldier  barely talks. Not a chatty guy on a good day, which didn't bother Rumlow much at first until he was officially brought into the Winter Soldier program and learned what they did to keep such a danger under control. It was in the Soldier’s best interest to keep his head down and kill who they pointed him at without much talking in between.

“And are you eating what they give you?”

The sudden avoidance in making eye contact answers the question even before his mouth opens. He looks ready to collapse, which is saying a hell of a lot. Rumlow watched the Soldier take plenty of hits that should have killed anyone else and shake it off. Granted, during the mission they pumped the Soldier full of all sorts of things to keep him functioning. It was borderline scary all the injuries that monster could work through and still get his mission completed.

Rumlow wants to lie down and sleep. Physical therapy is nothing to laugh at when he's been losing muscle mass wasting away in a hospital bed. As much as he wants to investigate into the Soldier’s shitty self-preservation instincts, he wants to take a nap more. And honestly, the Soldier looks ready to collapse and he's already sitting down.

“Alright, whatever. If you find something edible that you want to eat, consider it a standing order that you can eat my food.” Rumlow says, keeping his interest casual. Nope, no sudden glance at the fridge. Either the Soldier thinks he's been bad or he's sick.

It is a toss up, honestly. The guy was worse than most dogs, belly to the floor if he  _ thought _ he might have done something wrong. It's a conditioned response, Rumlow knows. It was safer for the Soldier to beg for forgiveness than act like nothing was wrong- then he ran the risk of greater trouble.

Rumlow used to train dogs- mostly the working dog breeds- when he was younger. He could trust them, they listened to him, and they were more loyal than most people. His dogs would never backstab him because of politics or bribes. They never lied to him, and they matched his workaholic attitude with energy to spare.

Handling the Winter Soldier was more like training a dog than he expected. A very suspicious abused dog who did everything he was told but sometimes snapped at the people who kicked him. Rumlow never raised a hand against the Winter Soldier. Unlike other handlers, he wasn't about to start a goddamn power play with an intelligent predator that could wipe the floor with him. If you can't take your opponent down in a fight, don't go looking for one.

Hitting animals that did good work was counterproductive in the worst way. They never trusted those who hit them ever again. Considering his track record, ninety-five percent of the time when the Soldier didn't obey an order it was a deliberate, calculated choice to adjust for something unexpected in the heat of a mission. Four percent of the time the Soldier responded emotionally and didn't want to do whatever he was ordered to do because he knew it was going to hurt. The other few times he downright ignored a direct order, he was never far away from lunging for the throat of someone who kicked him.

So no, Rumlow did nothing but raise his voice at the Soldier because he knew that the Soldier gave his best every time and sometimes it just happened to not work out. You can't expect him to do the impossible just because you'll beat the shit out of him if he doesn't.

The Soldier does not appreciate that kind of treatment. He'll put up with it for as long as he can - as long as he has to- until the hatred was too much to bury.

The only reason Rumlow is standing here today was because he respected the Soldier as much as he respected his own team.

“I'm going to take a nap. Do whatever you want. No, I take that back- nothing illegal inside my apartment.” He warns, not wanting to wake up to some Hydra goon bleeding out in his living room. 

The Soldier watches him, his gaze flat with exhaustion. 

\-- --- --

One of Rumlow’s first assignments to handle the Soldier was when the Soldier snapped post- mission and killed his field handler and support team. His original impression was the Soldier was unstable and needed a hard reset as soon as his team could get him under control. Then he found the Soldier in the same abandoned barn as the rotting bodies, hiding in an old horse stall in the corner with a cracked skull, a broken femur, and his back covered in a serious collection of welts, bruises, and cuts. He was not aggressive or trying to kill Rumlow’s Strike team. The entire situation was off. He was cowering like a dog expecting a beating to start up again and didn't know whether to run or bite. Since this wasn't a dog but a person who could talk, Rumlow started to get the Soldier’s side of things. 

The guy was almost delirious with pain, having dragged himself there to lie in a patch of winter sunlight to stay warm. It started off with the handler, a guy by the name of Derek Madison, yelling at the Soldier for taking an additional forty minutes to complete the assassination. The Soldier reminded his handler the intel was spotty and he expressed concern to Madison during the briefing; the Soldier had to spend extra time killing people who should not have been there. Madison took this as disobedience and ordered the Soldier to his knees for punishment. Desperate, the Soldier tried again to explain his reasoning without going to his knees like he was told. Madison was about to strike the Soldier when he darted out of reach. He crashed to his knees, however, when Madison took off his belt, uncharacteristically begging his handler to not punish him- Madison was well known for his brutal style of handling the Winter Soldier. That earned the Soldier a vicious crack to the head with the belt buckle, sending him to the floor, disoriented.

The Soldier tried to last through it, he really did- he's pleading with Rumlow to believe him at this point, honest to god whining like a scared puppy. Madison was going to strike the Soldier once for every minute over they waited, promising more if the Soldier made a sound. Even a super soldier couldn't stay quiet during that kind of physical pain. Madison apparently was only incensed by the Soldier’s involuntary cries of pain and forced the Soldier to service him. 

The Soldier lost the iron grip on his fear - fueled hatred and killed the next team member to reach for him. It turned into a bloodbath and the Soldier slunk off to find a quiet place to recover.

Rumlow reassured the Soldier he wasn't going to punish him for killing the team. They gave the poor bastard a shock blanket, some water, and all the painkillers they dared to feed him while the medical team was en route.

Rollins butted in and testified that Madison was a godawful handler and sadist. Yeah, Rumlow knew. He's seen the security footage of Madison with the Soldier. No wonder the Soldier ripped him apart. He was cruel to an extreme. Madison could never trust the Soldier because the Soldier didn't trust him. 

Pierce let Rumlow explain himself for his thinking when he reported back. Rumlow said he thought punishing the Soldier on top of this was too much even for him. Madison did enough damage- he's already going to be wiped after, so let the Soldier off the hook.

When asked why, Rumlow argued that using the Soldier for anything but his mission was going to result in a lot of fear on the Soldier’s part, which in turn leads to behavior like this. Personally, Rumlow was disgusted with the idea that people were comfortable using the Soldier for sexual gratification. He's the goddamn Winter Soldier, a weapon built to destroy, not something there to use during downtime. (The Soldier couldn't say no so it's rape- no way in hell a ‘yes, sir/ma’am’ from the Soldier was in any way consent). At the time Rumlow did not realize Pierce was one of those people. It really shouldn't have shocked him. Pierce was an controlling, power-hungry asshole.

It was all about the power in the end.

Rumlow got enough adrenaline highs in the field working alongside the Soldier, thanks. That's all Rumlow needed from the Soldier, and the Soldier needed Rumlow to keep his hunting instincts under control.

\-- --- --

Rumlow opens his eyes as the mattress dips when the Soldier crawls into bed with him. He settles with his back pressed against Rumlow’s, seeking out body heat whenever he could find it. Rumlow appreciates the Soldier not sprawling on top of him just yet- he doesn’t think his body is ready for that kind of weight. 

“Try not to accidentally kill me in my sleep,” Rumlow murmurs, already closing his eyes. He feels the Soldier huff out a quiet laugh. Jesus, the guy almost has a personality. It's… weird. Good, maybe, but weird.

Rumlow will order some food when he wakes up. And maybe send the Soldier off to shower. 

They'll figure this out.

\-- --- --

_ Somebody break these chains, _

_ Wrapped around this heart.  _

_ I don’t want you leaving, _

_ I’m begging for mercy, oh to break these chains. _

_ Oh, heaven help me now, _

_ Trade theses shackles for a crown. _

_ And I’m on my way… way down.” _

_ “In Chains” Shaman’s Harvest; Smokin’ Hearts & Broken Gun _

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You get three guesses at which avenger is running the twitter account How2dateCapUSA @97notdead :P
> 
> I don't know if y'all know this, but comments make my day so much better. I am 100% with someone wanting to chat about my fic, either on here or on my tumblr. Come, be sad with me! <3 ((okay I know I said chapter 6 was going to be happier?... yeah, it's not looking good for poor bucky right now...but who knows? I have awful writer's block))
> 
> Again, unbeta'd at the time since I am too impatient to let my betas look at this before I post XD. One looked over the last chapter, so it's more a post-post editing rather than a pre-posting editing


	6. "Stop Me When You've Had Enough" by Nural

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Internalized victim blaming (Bucky), mention of flashbacks, mention of manipulation, mention of abuse (sexual/physical) and suicidal thoughts.
> 
> Summary: Steve misreads the situation… again. Meanwhile, Rumlow know exactly how to get things done. Bucky is trying, but he doesn't think his new handler know how to handle him. This causes a lot of stress, and Bucky can only take so much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic will not ever contain spoilers for Civil War or any other Marvel movie, since this fic is canon divergent after TWS. The only canon this fic follows is TWS, that's it!
> 
> Edit (July 19th, 2016): I am still here! Next chapter will not be up until school starts next month. I have too much to do, sorry D:

 

_ “I’ve been wandering in disarray,  _

_ Walking off the pain that you heal,  _

_ Just to open the wound.  _

_ It’s sadistic, but I gotta say,  _

_ In a twisted way, I don’t mind it,  _

_ I like what you do.” _

\-- --- --

It is uncomfortable, yet so familiar, how pliant the Soldier becomes after the short nap. He decided there was no use to pay attention to anything anymore and checked out of lucid awareness.

Rumlow has to prod him into the shower. He lets the Soldier sit on the floor as a safety precaution; he can't fall if he's already down. 

Rumlow’s had plenty of experience doing maintenance for the Soldier- he was a field handler, after all- but the Soldier was usually too injured to do it himself whenever Rumlow stepped in to help.

Maybe he's exhausted. It's plausible, judging by the Soldier's slowed breathing rate and half-closed eyes. He remains still as Rumlow works on the tangles in his hair. It's longer than usual, but if the Soldier left his hair like that, Rumlow isn't one to make a fuss.

But he will draw the line at the beginnings of a beard. Hair can always be tied back, but facial hair becomes time consuming quickly and the Soldier is not concerned nor equipped to deal with personal hygiene. 

Rumlow repositions the Soldier so he can shave him without straining to reach. Obedient as always, the Soldier moves with him, unconcerned or unaware of his potential vulnerability as Rumlow prepares to bring a sharp razor to his skin.

He's staring down the barrel of an unloaded gun; this is as docile as the Soldier ever gets. (Rumlow has always been careful to mind his approach whenever the Soldier was in varying states of undress. By now, he's built up enough trust that the Soldier doesn’t equate being naked around him as a problem. One wrong slip and Rumlow’s dead).

The shower stays on, but Rumlow lowers the water pressure to keep warm steam flowing in the bathroom while preventing himself from getting splashed. Thank god he buys unscented shaving cream; if Rumlow thinks a smell is strong, the Soldier would think of it as a kick to the head. 

Regardless, the Soldier stirs out of hiding away in his own head as Rumlow spreads on the shaving cream. Those gunmetal grey eyes consider him for a few moments, then his gaze slides off into nothing again. Rumlow takes it as permission to continue. 

Thin metal blades run along skin, wading through thick foam at every stroke, balanced at a close shave with no threat of nicking the Soldier’s face.

“Good.” Rumlow praises quietly as to not shatter his calm focus. The Soldier slow-blinks at him and leans ever so subtly into the fingers on the edge of his jaw. Asking. 

Another gentle scrape of the razor on skin. Rumlow washes off the shaving cream building up on the blades. He shifts his faint touch on the Soldier’s jaw to a firm hold on the side of his neck and cheek, easing the Soldier’s head to tilt back while pulling him forward. 

Rumlow doesn’t miss the way Soldier’s eyes close in content, the faint sigh that parts his chapped lips.

“That's perfect.” He praises again, deliberate as he strokes his thumb along the Soldier's cheekbone, the touch paralleled by Rumlow shaving the sensitive skin over his throat. 

The Soldier shivers and exhales, his breath warm against Rumlow’s wrist. He can feel the vibration of the sound the Soldier tries to hide- it's almost a faint groan. 

Wow, the Soldier is  _ starved _ for praise and contact if he's reacting like this. Rogers must not be allowing any kind of positive reinforcement or rewards.

That fucking sucks. 

Whatever justification Rogers has for keeping space between him and the Soldier, it's not helping as much as he thinks it is. Regardless, Rumlow won't get involved; it's not his mess to deal with.

Here and now, Rumlow will handle the Soldier however he sees fit.

\-- --- --

Grumbling to himself, Rumlow somehow wrestles the Soldier into clothes without harming either of them. His body aches like a motherfucker. He hopes he's not destroying his new skin with all this activity. Grafted skin hurts worse than the burns ever did. The only good thing about severe burns is that most of his nerves were destroyed.

His face doesn't look quite the same, but he just wears one of those face-mimic tech masks of his own face. It freaks out less people that way. It's not vanity- although Rollins claims it its- but the simple fact that people treat him differently because he looks like he tripped and landed face first into fire pit. (And if the Soldier can’t recognize him, Rumlow can’t ensure that the Soldier remembers him as someone to trust, not to fear). 

Karma’s a bitch. Although, it’s his own fault for getting stuck in a burning building trying to pull a Winter Soldier and take on everybody in the entire fucking place. He was more than a little annoyed the mission fell through on the Soldier’s side, but it was inevitable that Pierce was going to fail before the all-American goodness that is Steve Rogers.

“Let's go back to sleep.” 

It was going great; the Soldier is now clean and without his scruffy five o'clock shadow… then he reverted back to not responding. The Soldier at least  _ looks _ better, although the dark circles around his eyes and his sickly pale skin really accent how much his health tanked- okay, the Soldier looks fractionally better. Not much, but it's a start.

Rumlow does not want to deal with two hundred fifty pounds- actually, closer to two hundred pounds since the guy apparently  _ doesn’t eat, Jesus Christ _ \- of uncoordinated super soldier stumbling around his apartment. Rumlow does not have the money to replace this shit if something breaks.

Growling, the Soldier resists Rumlow trying to herd him back into bed, baring his teeth like an animal.

(As much as he looks like a man, the Soldier is feral. Only the thinnest amount of iron will keeps the Soldier in control of his predatory instincts).

“Fine, whatever.” Rumlow lets him go immediately following that escalation of behavior.

No way in hell he’s tangling with that. The sharp old lady who is his landlord would find a way to revive him just to murder him again if Rumlow messed up his cheap-ass apartment with something as irresponsible as his own blood stains.

The Soldier blinks at him, making a soft noise of confusion, and pulls an expression not dissimilar to a dog pulling the ‘puppy eyes’ trick. Which is more than a little creepy, considering the Soldier is dangerous as hell and he’s acting like he’s nothing more than a downtrodden stray.

“Devil,” mutters Rumlow. He pulls his pillow behind him to support his back and gets into bed, sitting up against the wall. Reaching over, he grabs his Kindle to play around and maybe read something. Diffuse the tension first, let his lack of reaction calm the situation.

Of course, the Soldier gets over whatever protests he had and eagerly curls up next to him, tucked up close to take advantage of any and all body heat Rumlow gives off. The Soldier makes the clear decision to lay his head right next to Rumlow’s hand. 

Obliging, Rumlow runs his fingers through the Soldier’s damp hair. He full-body shivers and starts  _ purring.  _ He can’t think of any other word to describe the quiet, constant rumbling the Soldier makes. It's fucking weird, but it is a huge indicator of how relaxed the Soldier is. Sometimes he even falls asleep- high praise from such a paranoid guy.

The Soldier goes boneless like a really big house cat. Rumlow is careful to keep his hands from touching anything but the Soldier’s hair. Anything else causes a spike of fear and tension if Rumlow accidentally crosses this unspoken barrier.

As touch starved as the Soldier is, he doesn’t like most physical contact, which makes his life a nightmare and a half. Rumlow has the balance of too much and too little figured out as well as the trust to be safe doing this without pushing the Soldier over the edge into a panic.

He continues to mess with the Soldier’s hair as he plays mahjong on his Kindle, watching the Soldier relax until he’s sleeping. 

Or fake - sleeping. He can't tell; the Soldier is unbelievable at acting if he wants to be. 

\-- --- --

This is much better. It's so less stressful to be with a handler that is predictable, allowing the him to stop worrying about what he needs to do. Rumlow will give him orders when he feels it is necessary, no mind games or tricks to confuse him.

If only he could get Rogers to do the same. 

\-- --- --

“Rogers doesn’t know how to be a handler.”

It dawns him while Rumlow keeps feeding him cold pizza slices later that evening. He reels from the implications

Rumlow leans against the counter, sudden enough to startle until the Soldier registers laughter. Rumlow can't stop, and he narrows his eyes as his handler- past handler?- has to fight down his clear amusement. Rumlow is mocking him…?

“You're just getting this  _ now _ ?” Rumlow asks between chuckles, incredulous. The Soldier doesn’t appreciate the humor. He tenses up. How was he to know? It's not like it made sense, having the Soldier with anyone but a handler. Who else would have the authority to keep him operational?

A glance at the Soldier’s defensive posture shuts down Rumlow’s lingering laughter. To buy time to regain his composure, Rumlow pushes another slice of pizza the Soldier’s way. He obeys the unspoken order, eating it with enough care to ensure his stomach isn't going to reject cold cheese and tomato sauce. (He'd never admit he's hungry, but Rumlow reads him better than anyone. He's going to keep this food down; he can still be good).

“No, I guess you wouldn't have.”

“Why doesn't Rogers know how to be a proper handler?” The Soldier asks after a pause to see if Rumlow still lets him participate in conversation. It’s fine; he’s allowed. 

It's annoying to backtrack and anticipate someone who he thought was instructed on how to handle him; He's walking on glass to keep Rogers happy. All this energy wasted on a man who doesn’t even know the basics.

He bristles, anger leeching into his chest at Rogers- at himself for not figuring it out sooner. He could have been guiding Rogers to be a good handler, but instead he's been trying to predict a man who wasn't even trying to be consistent.

“I don't think Rogers wants to be your handler,” Rumlow replies slowly, cautious like he's testing out a new gun for the first time and he's not sure how it all fits together.

That doesn't make any sense. Why wouldn't he want to be a handler? Rogers acts like one anyways.

“He needs to learn,” the Soldier snaps, already growling under his breath at all the work he has to do on top of being obedient and useful. He forgets himself and continues: “You should talk to him.” 

He likes Rumlow; having two handlers he can trust to be reasonable would be unbelievable.

He doesn’t even have time to apologize for giving his  _ own handler an order _ before Rumlow waves him off with another laugh. 

“I don't think I'm the best person to do that. Rogers hates me and I'd end up with a broken nose or something.” 

He'd like to see Rogers try. 

“Easy, big guy. No one's gonna get into a fight,” soothes Rumlow, his smile reappearing. “Besides, I don't want to get involved; if you have a problem, fix it yourself.”

The Soldier stares at him.

How is he going to explain all of this to Rogers? He doesn’t make the rules- he follows them. He can't… tell Rogers how the dynamic works. The handlers are always the ones who set the expectations- how the hell is he going to figure out what Rogers wants? What if he gets it wrong and Rogers still doesn't let him know-

“Relax.”

The Soldier blinks, taking a deep breath to interrupt his panicked haze. How pathetic. This is why he needs a handler- they can get him under control when the Soldier is unaware that he's treading into dangerous territory.

“You can talk to him, alright? Rogers is a great guy. He'll listen to you, but it's going to be a bit of a shock to him.”

Okay, he can do that. He can meet Rogers in the middle here and show him what potential he is wasting by not taking advantage of everything the Soldier has to offer. (Maybe Rogers doesn’t know what to do with him… that's an easy fix. He knows what a majority of the handlers like; it shouldn't be too hard to figure out what Rogers would respond to). 

“But stay a while, would you? Cap would be happier if you looked like you were actually taking care of yourself.” Rumlow pokes his finger into the Soldier’s ribs, a disgruntled frown twisting his expression at the evident amount of weight the Soldier has lost. (The Soldier takes note of what Rumlow said: Rogers wants the Soldier to be functional and presentable)

He's not used to doing everything for himself. The techs did what they needed to do and he let them. It's so much work to maintain even this low level of operation; he can't keep up with it all.

He still can't believe that Rumlow puts up with all of this and seems genuine in his concern for the Soldier.

\-- --- --

Daily Tasks:

Try to do every day:

  * Eat 3 meals a day (try to match Rogers eventually)
  * Drink 8-10 glasses of water
  * Take medication as prescribed
  * Brush your hair
  * Brush your teeth 2 times a day
  * Sleep at least 5 hrs a night (can sleep more)
  * Change into clean clothes
  * If sick/injured, take care of it



Must do:

  * Eat (as much as you can)
  * Drink 5 or more glasses of water
  * Brush teeth once
  * Sleep 3 hrs (can sleep more)
  * If sick/injured, take care of it
  * Take medication as prescribed
  * Shower once every 2 days



This is a rather long list of tasks he has to do. It's not impossible- no, he's tried to follow impossible orders before and this isn't it. He had no idea he needed to take care of so many different things.

“Believe it or not, that's not actually everything you  _ should  _ be doing, but we'll worry about that later.” Rumlow remarks, tone flooded with dry humor. “Sophie thinks this is enough to start with.”

He must be showing some of his apprehension. It's on a sheet of paper that Rumlow gave to him, so hopefully he doesn’t have to memorize it. (He could, but sometimes he can't remember anything at all even if they punish him for getting it wrong).

“I know it looks overwhelming, but I'm not expecting an overnight change. Neither is Rogers.” He adds. “ Didn't you already eat once today? And your migraine is gone, you took a shower, brushed your teeth and hair, drank a glass of water, as well as slept close to three hours.”

Well, the Soldier hardly remembers doing most of it.

“You had to keep helping me,” he points out, cautious. Does it count if Rumlow did most of the work? Offered him food and water and make sure the Soldier actually ate it. Gave him a tooth brush, clean clothes, and let him sleep.

He's had other people kill his targets when he was unable to finish his mission, but that usually meant he'd pay for not doing his part. He was only used for complicated missions and impossible shots that couldn't be handled discretely by any of Hydra’s teams; if the team has to clean up his mess, he wasted all the time and energy put into bring him out of cryo and prepping him for the mission- of course that would cause people to be angry at him

“That's fine. It's still done, right?”

“... yes, sir.” 

“Then that's all you need to do.”

Okay… he can do this, both to keep Rumlow and Sophie happy as well as to start pleasing Rogers.

Give him a chance and he can be perfect.

\-- --- --

So far the list of things he's compiled about what Rogers wants points to acting more like a person- his friend, James Barnes. His new handler doesn’t want the cold programming that he defaults to; he wants reactions, emotions that aren't hidden. Rogers seems to not mind calming him down, likes to touch him but doesn't do it all the time- only when he deserves it.

Like Pierce. 

He doesn’t cringe like he wants to when he puts this together. Focuses on what is manageable instead. He can work harder to respond to ‘Bucky’. Spend his time at Rogers’ side. Knows that eventually he is going to make a mistake and Rogers might punish him or might let it slide.

He doesn’t know if Rogers likes  _ everything _ his last handler did, but it's a solid starting point.

(He has to remind himself that Pierce wasn't like Lukin, so maybe Rogers is better than Pierce…? He has to prepare for the tricks, the lies. The switch between kind and cruel, then back to kindness if he was good. The pain and fear he tried to manage when he couldn't be obedient- he tried so hard and still it wasn't enough-).

Time to make up his failings to his new handler.

\-- --- --

_ So keep it coming, I’m just warming up. _

_ Have you had enough? _

_ I should know that I’m bound to lose.  _

_ If you ever wanna clean the slate,  _

_ Make a change of pace,  _

_ You should try to walk a mile in my shoes. _

\-- --- --

Bucky has been acting different ever since he came back. It's a good kind of change. Bucky makes eye contact a little more often when Steve talks to him. He replies most of the time, too, always overly polite and soft-spoken. It's better than not talking, but the submissive behavior is still there. 

Baby steps. 

Bucky also stays within reach, close to him without touching. Steve dared to be the one to initiate contact after a few times of waiting for Bucky to do it. He worried that Bucky would react badly, but Bucky relaxes so much when it happens, Steve can't keep his hands to himself.

Meanwhile, Sam stays out of the way. It's not ideal and it's like Bucky knocked Sam out of orbit to be closer to Steve, but he's hoping it's a temporary thing. Sam doesn’t trust Bucky yet; he stares at the two of them over meals or watching nature documentaries in the living room.

They don't talk it out, partially because Bucky never leaves Steve’s side, partially because Sam has nothing to go on besides his own suspicion. Oh, how Sam oozes disapproval. Steve’s not sure what’s changed Sam’s attitude towards Bucky- only that Sam watches Bucky with the same caution reserved for dangerous, idle things like rusty nails in a child’s playground or spilled gasoline. Bucky doesn’t react with violence, thankfully,  to these not-so-subtle glare sessions. Instead, he avoids eye contact and quiets down.

\-- --- --

Steve's tired of playing this game of ‘guess my thoughts’ when no one fucking says anything.

All three of them are eating dinner, Bucky still a little skittish around both of them. He doesn’t eat much, but it could be because he’s not used to eating around other people without worrying about his food will be taken away. 

It’s doesn’t help Sam creates tension by eyeing Barnes when he thinks Steve isn’t looking. 

“What is your problem, Sam?” He snaps when Bucky shifts, uncomfortable from yet another staredown from Sam.

Sam’s gaze flips over to him.

“Nothin’. I'm fine.” Sam replies, calm and collected as if Steve’s outburst was expected. 

Steve grits his teeth. “Don't fucking pull this bullshit on me. Spit it out. I want to know what is your problem.”

“Besides the fact that we’re supposed to act like Barnes is fine when he’s not?” Sam raises an eyebrow at him, unamused.

“Jesus, Sam. He’s not going to be one hundred percent okay overnight.”

“No, but you’re oblivious to the fact that he’s reverting back to his programing like a well trained dog.”

That’s uncalled for. Steve stands up. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Bucky jerks out of his chair when Sam stands up, too. 

“What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with him?”

“This isn't a game, Sam!”

“I'm not the one who's fucking around. How blind do you have to be to miss how hard ‘ _ your friend’ _ is playing you, huh?!” Sam snipes back, sarcastic. He jabs a finger in Bucky’s direction, who retreats back half a step even though Sam can't possibly reach him. 

“Don't scare him.” Steve cuts in before Sam can speak. He can feel the anxiety rolling off Bucky in waves and so Steve steps in front of him to provide a barrier.

“Oh,  _ he  _ needs protection?” Sam laughs, bitter and caustic. “Never mind the fact that ‘your Bucky’ is the scariest fucking thing I've ever seen and you don't recognize it.”

“Fucking hell, Sam. Enough!” Steve snaps, incensed. Sam gets right up in his face, narrowing his eyes into slits. 

“No, you don’t get it,  _ Steve _ . You're so wrapped up in the idea that Barnes is one day going to wake up magically cured with a perfect memory, forget that Hydra even is a thing, be a perfect guy-”

“I  _ never _ said those things!” 

“But you wouldn't fucking complain if it were to happen! Get your head out of your ass and realize that Barnes isn't going to be the same- he's the fucking  _ Winter Soldier _ , Steve! He's manipulative and calculating as he keeps tailoring his behavior to match the standards you set for him!” 

Bucky makes a sound of distress, but Sam ignores him. 

“Is wanting him to get better a crime?!” Steve challenges. “So what?”

“Here's your ‘so what’,” Sam hisses. “What does Barnes do after being gone for two days? Eats, showers, even brushes his hair after three months of us struggling to get him to  _ sleep _ . He's glued to your side because he notices that you light up like a Christmas tree if he stays. Don't get me started on how he reacts when you touch him. Barnes can't  _ stand _ to be near people but now it's suddenly okay? It's suspicious as hell.”

Why does everything Bucky does need a fucking sinister explanation?

“What are you trying to say?” Steve hates to ask, but Sam never says things just for the hell of it.

“I'm saying he's not innocent of ulterior motives. What else is he hiding if he's able to hide his true emotions from you? You're perpetuating the toxic cycle, Steve. Literally four days ago he called you his handler. Do you really think his mindset changed that quickly?”

That is a slap to the face.

“Don't you fucking  _ dare _ compare me to those monsters,” Steve spits out. Sam glares at him and pokes him in the chest. 

“This isn't about you! It's how Barnes  _ perceives  _ you and how you seem to think he's harmless. I hate to break it to you, but the Winter Soldier’s kill count is still growing- it's all him this time so you can't blame it on Hydra.”

Steve growls deep in his chest, rage and protectiveness tangled like dynamite and fire. 

“You're way out of line.” 

It's not what he meant to say at all. Steve can't fucking argue about this with Sam. It feels like a betrayal- he thought Sam would have his back.

“Okay, sure. I’ll let you two figure it out, because I’m damn sure I don’t want to be a part of this.”

Sam snatches his keys from the counter. The door closes with more force than needed, and Steve checks back to see Bucky standing frozen. 

“Asshole.” Steve glares at the door after Sam shuts it. He sighs in an attempt to push out the anger bubbling up before he tries to soothe Bucky.

\-- --- --

Sam heads back to his place, choosing to walk the four miles because he can. (Also, he doesn’t have a ride, but he can manage himself just fine). 

He doesn’t want to be a part of this mess for much longer; Sam had his fill back when he and Steve were chasing tails all over the fucking world looking for a man who doesn’t want to be found. He doesn’t blame Barnes, not at all. But it doesn’t mean Sam has to live with him. And right now, Barnes is impossible to live with. Being a peer support specialist for the VA means that Sam deals with this sort of thing at his job, but now when his home and his alone time turns into that same delicate balance… a guy’s gotta take a break. He’s warned Steve about trying to keep up with Barnes around the clock and how dangerous it is for both of them, but Steve’s selective hearing is a nightmare to get through.

Just because Sam can help doesn’t mean should, especially if he’s sacrificing his own sanity. He’s drawing the line here, and tries not to feel guilty about it. He can decide if he’s qualified or not to help, and Barnes’ head full of horrors exceeds his limits. 

\-- --- --

No, no!

He can’t- no, this is still salvageable. Steve doesn’t believe it; but he could see the doubt grow as Sam Wilson continued to talk. Tension runs through the room, electrifying. Don’t show it. Don’t let it slip- convince him Wilson’s lying.

“Hey, Buck. You with me?” Steve’s voice, concerned and cautious.

“Yeah, sorry.” He shakes his head, then meets Steve’s gaze. “I was- I-” He breaks off, glances to Steve again. 

As predicted, Steve’s voice softens as he smiles, encouraging. “What is it?”

He pauses for a bit, considering the best way to approach.

“I'm sorry,” he whispers. Steve's expressions changes to one of mild alarm.

“Hey,” Steve steps closer and reaches out for him. Of course, he leans into Steve’s hand, making a clear point to relax. Steve can't hide his approval; his blue eyes light up.

(How unfair is it that Steve contradicts himself all the time?! He says he’s okay with ‘Bucky’ being a mess, but then turns around and his expression betrays what Steve really wants. What does he appeal to? Steve’s spoken words or his body language?).

He follows Steve to the couch, where he settles with his head in Steve’s lap. He makes a show about getting comfortable.

He gets the sense that Steve wants to talk, so he waits. He's good at waiting. At least he can focus on keeping his heart rate under control while Steve thinks.

(The longer the silence stretches, the worse he feels. Only by willpower does he refrain from confessing to his handler, from scrambling out of Steve’s lap to kneel on the floor where he knows he's doing the right things).

“I'm worried about you, Buck.” Steve’s voice is so quiet he almost doesn’t hear him. “You've been acting weird.” 

Sam Wilson is going to fuck this up. He needs to be talked to.

“Sorry,” he says again. “I'm just- I can work harder-” He really doesn't want to screw this up. Steve has been  _ so kind _ -please give him a chance.

“No, don't.” Steve orders, and he freezes. Steve must feel him tense because he sighs. “You don't have to get better overnight, Bucky. It's okay; you're allowed to take your time.”

Steve fails to mention that he would be happier if Bucky got better faster. 

“I want to, Steve. I want to, I promise…” He trails off at the guarded look in Steve’s eyes. 

“Bucky,” he says eventually, calm in the worst kind of way. “Am I your handler?” 

_ Yes _ .

“I don't have handlers anymore…” He repeats what Steve says often to him on the subject. As much as Steve acts like he hates them, he's everything a handler is.

Steve frowns. “Do you believe that?”

_ No _ . 

“I'm trying,” he whispers like it's a secret and not a blatant lie that could get him punished- punishment that he can’t bare to endure. 

“Shh… it's okay. You're doing great. Trying is good enough.” Steve strokes his hair and he forces himself to accept rewards that he hasn't earned. But he has to pretend. Pretend that his skin isn't crawling because he's too close to his handler. Pretends his heart isn't thundering in his chest. 

He needs to be Steve’s Bucky.

\-- --- --

Steve sends Sam a picture a few hours after the argument, after Sam’s gone on a run to turn the frustration into something productive. He cracks a smile when he opens the message: a drawing of a cartoon donkey with ‘I’m sorry I’m so stubborn’ sign on it. Stubborn Ass. Hilarious. 

But Steve means well, and Sam decides that the significant downfall to loving a certain Steven Grant Rogers is that you can’t stay mad at him for any length of time. Oh, Sam’s still annoyed, but it’s the circumstance he can’t deal with.

\-- --- --

>>”Steve”: I’m sorry we fought. I respect your opinion, but I don’t agree with what you said.

>”Sam”: I understand. A man’s allowed his opinions. 

>>”Steve”: Agree to disagree?

>”Sam”: Considering that we’re both stubborn asses… yes.

>>”Steve”: :) 

>>”Steve”: You can come back if you want. I didn’t want to make it seem like I was kicking you out. 

>”Sam”: I think we all need a bit of a breather. I’ll be back when I feel ready.

>>”Steve”: Okay. Thanks for putting up with me.

>”Sam”: I knew what I signed up for, Rogers. When you love someone, you love all of them, not just the pretty parts. 

>>”Steve”: Lucky for you I’m very handsome

>”Sam”: How modest of you.

>>”Steve”: Be safe. 

>”Sam”: Always. Love you.

\-- --- --

Steve’s guilt over Sam leaving grows. However, both of them need time to cool off. Sam means well; he just can't understand how careful Steve is with Bucky. It's been only six years from Steve’s perspective since Bucky ‘died’. Bucky may have forgotten how they acted around one another, but Steve hasn't.

He’s not naive to think that Bucky would be alright with Steve suddenly in his space, so he makes sure to ask. Bucky always give him the go-ahead, though. Steve didn’t quite believe it at first, but so far nothing he has done has sent Bucky into a flashback or panic attack… so maybe it’s okay. 

Sure, he sees that Bucky always looks to Steve for advice, to check to make sure what he’s asking is acceptable. But can Bucky really be expected to shake off all of his conditioning at once? He’s already making such an effort to get used to living life without Hydra- who is Steve to say it’s not enough?

(He knows that Bucky is still cleaning up Hydra bases, but can you really blame him? If he wants them dead, Steve isn’t going to stop him). 

\-- --- --

He can't do anything right.

He’s going to fuck up and then Steve’s going to  _ know _ he lied to him. Not the lesser offense that are lies of omission, but looked-his-handler-in-the-eyes-and-still-lied kind of lying. 

As he tricks Steve into thinking he’s okay and he’s good with all of this, a part of him just wants it to be over so he can stop pretending. At least Steve blames his lack of appetite on poor eating habits. When in reality he’s so nervous he can’t risk eating or he’s going to throw it all up; the last thing he needs is to make this situation worse.

So he forces himself to make eye contact, hides the flinches and cringes of his handler reaching for him-  _ touching _ him- behind content smiles that aren’t big enough to reach his eyes. He hopes that Steve is too pleased with his apparent progress that he can’t see how much he’s failing. 

He knows he’s overcompensating for his internal distress by starting to engage in conversation and pay attention to Steve when he talks or when Steve watches something on the TV. But he is careful to not say his opinions, because that would be a huge mistake. He parallels Steve’s opinions enough to show he’s not trying to be combative, but keeps it different enough that Steve thinks he’s actually saying his own thoughts. 

He learned a long time ago to keep that sort of thing to himself. 

\-- --- --

_ Should I let you? I don’t think you’re ready to go.  _

_ If I let you, I don’t think you’re ready to know. _

_ Should I let you? I don’t think you’re ready to go.  _

_ If I let you... _

\-- --- --

Sam turns around and almost has a heart attack. 

“ _ Fucking _ \- warn a guy, jesus!” He swears, jumping back and spilling his coffee.

Barnes watches him, gaze unreadable. He stands in the middle of Sam’s kitchen, arms crossed over his chest. His presence isn’t a good omen; Sam has an idea of why he’s here. 

Fan-fucking-tastic.

Sam rubs his eyes. Maybe if he keeps his eyes closed long enough Barnes would disappear. Fat chance for that. If Sam’s right, Barnes isn’t going to walk away without getting what he wants. 

He really doesn’t want to fucking argue with this guy over his perceived ‘rules’ or whatever Barnes keeps locked in his head. When Sam opens his eyes, Barnes is still watching him. Would groaning and hiding in his bed be unprofessional?

“Alright, let me clean this up and we can talk.” 

Sam wants some time to think. He’s talked to a lot of vets about all kinds of things they struggled with, but Barnes is a far cry from a majority of the people Sam’s interacted with. Maybe just hearing Barnes out would be best. Trying to argue with him over a completely irrational point isn’t going to work. 

Barnes doesn’t move as Sam wipes his spilt coffee off of his floor. It’s creepy, actually. Sam can feel Barnes staring holes through him.

“What are you trying to do?” Barnes’ voice cuts through Sam’s confusion on how to start the conversation.

“What?” He’s caught off-guard.

“You need to stop.”

Sam feels a little nervous when Barnes walks closer to him, his tone as cold as his gaze. He’s pretty sure Barnes is aware of how threatening he is- like, jesus, the guy practically oozes danger. (But also, Sam is allowed to be intrigued that Barnes is telling him to cut it out when he’s never heard the guy be assertive). 

“What am I doing that you don’t like?” Sam offers, keeping his side of the conversation pleasant and non-judgmental even if he thinks Barnes is barking up the wrong tree. Sam stands up, slowly, and leans against the counter so he can at least be upright when Barnes is looming over him. 

Barnes studies him as if he doesn’t believe Sam would be alright with this.

“With Rogers. You’re making him think something is wrong.”

Oh, so everything’s fine? But Sam doesn’t say that because he’s not going to start anything.

“Is there something wrong?” He asks instead. 

“ _ No _ .” Barnes growls, but the look in his eyes is almost desperate. 

Okay, maybe Sam shouldn’t have poked at the issue if Barnes is that spun up about it.

“I won't mention it.” Sam decides to go with it. It’s not like he actually wants to cause problems. If Barnes wants help, he’ll ask. But trying to offer help to Barnes when he keeps pushing it away isn’t going to work well at all.  

Barnes blinks at Sam, his hostility melting away.

“You'll… not bring it up anymore?” He repeats, unsure. “Why would- what are you getting out of this?” 

“I don't need anything, Barnes. I'm sorry for making you uncomfortable, and if it makes you feel better, I'll stop.” 

This is clearly a foreign concept if Barnes’ hesitation is anything to go by. Then;

“I don't believe you.”

This is a little heartbreaking, honestly. Sam would like to help, but he’s just so tired and not prepared to deal with Barnes. Not today, and probably not tomorrow, either. (Or next week or the next…).

“I’m not going to say anything else on the subject if you don’t want me to.” Sam says to soothe Barnes. “I promise, alright? That’s between you and Steve.”

Sam  _ has _ been an ass over the situation- but can you blame him? Steve is as blind as a goddamn bat when it comes to Barnes. It’s typical ‘control me’ behavior that is prevalent in abuse survivors. Barnes keeps looking for someone to appease, and Steve is unaware that he’s the perfect fit.

Barnes eyes Sam, still unconvinced. 

Sam sighs. “Seriously, it's fine. You got what you want and now I can be alone.”

“Are you- what?” Barnes protests eloquently, his sentences fracturing into half-formed thoughts without his anger fueled confidence. 

“We're done here. Go do what you usually do when you're not bugging me.”

Sam feels a little guilty for pretty much dismissing Barnes out of his house, but he doesn’t want to argue over this anymore.

Barnes shoots him one last expression of confusion, but fucks off. Probably through a window or something.

Sam wonders if the relief in Barnes’ eyes was intentional to make Sam feel bad or was it a glimpse of real emotion under the manufactured responses.

\-- --- --

_ “Is this okay?” _

_ “Buck, can I…? _

_ “How are you feeling? _

He wants to hide at all the constant questions. Constant, never-ending lies he replies with to placate his handler’s dangerous habit of searching for answers. Answers that he can't give anymore; he's dug himself too deep a hole to go back on his word. 

“Sure.” He lies when Steve asks if he wants to share the bed because ‘you shouldn't sleep on the couch, Buck. Bed’s big enough for two of us’.

The bed could never be big enough. He'd rather sleep on the floor. Outside. During freezing rain or a heat wave. He'd rather not sleep at all than be within earshot of his handler relaxing anywhere near a bed.

“Yeah, you can.” His voice is hardly a whisper when Steve asks if Bucky would be okay if Steve looked at his scars. (Bucky would have said yes, casual and relaxed and wouldn't have flinched or had to fight down the anxiety clawing over his skin like static).

So he says yes, too, and forces himself to relax.

It's his own fault for showering when Steve was in the room; he can do this. Steve hasn't hurt him yet. Don’t give him a reason to stop being so generous.

Then Steve touches the raised mess of scar tissue just lower than his right clavicle. A part of him shatters from the sensation of skin on skin. But it's fine, he can manage this. If it… he can lock himself away in his head if he needs to. 

“It's okay,” he says when Steve apologizes and drops his hand. It's not- it's not- he wants everyone to go away- he wants to sleep and never wake up-

“-you with me?”

Steve again, sounding worried. Shit, he must have spaced out for a few seconds. He can't afford to make those mistakes. 

“Sorry, I'm just tired.” 

It feels counterproductive to admit physical or mental exhaustion, but for some reason Steve allows it- lets him recover, even. 

Maybe he is tired, because he doesn’t notice anything out of the ordinary in his handler’s behavior. He welcomes the excuse to curl up in soft blankets in the cool darkness. 

He doesn’t think twice over Steve’s noncommittal noise in reply, nor the critical gaze swept over him. 

He should have noticed.

\-- --- --

>“Steve”: he's so passive. I could ask him to do anything and he'd probably do it.

>>”Sam”: probably

>”Steve”: sorry for yelling at you :c I didn't believe it

>>”Sam”: apology accepted. He was hiding it from you.

>”Steve”: but not from you? He came over to TALK to you.

>>”Sam”: Idk man. He's lost.

>”Steve”: :/ 

>”Steve”: do you think he's scared of me?

>>”Sam”: maybe

>”Steve”: :/ 

>>”Sam”: Most likely. 

>”Steve”: whhyyyy?????  I don’t understand why he thinks I'm someone to fear.

>>”Sam”: it's how his brain works. It doesn't make sense- he only sees things as situations he's seen in the past, nothing new.

>”Steve”: how to I talk to him about it?” 

>>”Sam”: confront him. Keep pressing for the real answers.

>”Steve”: won't that freak him out?

>>”Sam”: he's already freaked out, man.

>”Steve”: :/ 

>>”Sam”: ily <3 

>”Steve”: love you, too <3 

\-- --- --

He fucked up. He fucked up so bad.

\-- --- --

“What's wrong, Bucky?” Steve asks when he drags himself out of bed after a sleepless night. 

“Nothing. Just tired.” The lie falls out of his mouth like water over a waterfall, clear and seemingly innocuous because no one knows the stream is poisoned.

It's been almost a week since Sam Wilson’s argument with Steve. He doesn’t know if Steve is talking to Wilson or not. Maybe. Steve is less tense, so perhaps the fight was forgiven.

He doesn’t like being at Wilson’s mercy. He doesn’t know him, and Wilson has nothing to lose for causing problems. If Wilson convinces Steve of his dishonesty, it won't be Wilson who would take the fall. 

Maybe he should have insisted on doing something for Wilson. He knows Wilson is into men; Steve and Wilson are in a relationship. Wilson might have wanted him to beg for it… this is why he  _ hates  _ new handlers-

“-cky?”

His head automatically snaps up to look at Steve. 

“Sorry,” he says. At least he's allowed to apologize for being worthless. 

Steve smiles, sad. His handler does that a lot when he's not good enough. It's disappointment. 

“Did you sleep well last night?”

‘Not at all’ is the real answer, but Steve won't want to hear that. 

“It doesn't feel like it.” 

He didn’t try to sleep- he did the opposite. Stayed awake so he won’t be startled in case Steve decided he was done playing games. In case he had to be alert. Because he can't sleep in a bed with someone else,  _ especially _ a handler.

Steve frowns. “I was thinking about making waffles. You can sleep until they're ready, if you'd like.”

“Okay,” he agrees before he can think it over. He hopes he didn't sound too desperate. In the past week, he's slept no more than twelve hours total. It's impossible to quiet the never-ending screech of danger in his head. 

But Steve fetches a blanket and pillow for the couch instead of punishing him. He wishes Steve wouldn't- he knows he's not meeting expectations. He used to be able to go a few days without sleep. Longer if he could sleep an hour or two during downtime or maintenance. But now he's falling apart.

He's not even sure he sleeps at all when Steve wakes him up. The smell of food should be encouraging, but it just makes him feel sick. 

He knows he's allowed to eat, so why can't he? Steve, concerned, watches him poke at his plate. He should eat to placate his handler, but the idea of putting anything into his mouth is nauseating.

“Bucky… what's wrong?” 

“I'm not hungry.” It's a shame; he can't remember the last time his handlers gave him food like this. Waffles, eggs, and fruit. The bright colors look unnatural. It’s too much to even consider that he has been given this - what the hell has he done to earn it?

For the one handler he should trust, why can’t he do anything right? It's not- it doesn't make sense.

Steve reminds quiet for a while. 

“You're not eating, Buck. Something has to be bothering you.” Steve tries to coax an answer out of him.

He closes his eyes for a second to steel himself. 

“Nothing’s wrong.” But he can't look up at his handler. A grave mistake.

“Please stop lying to me.”

His heart pounds. “No, I'm not-”

“Bucky,” Steve cuts in, then sighs. “Please.”

It's over. He can't argue anymore. All he can do it wait and hope the fallout isn't something he can't handle.

Again, the silence stretches out. He's waiting for the explosion of temper. Waiting for Steve to either hit him or grab him. 

“Why don't you go back to bed. We can talk later.” Steve decides. 

This is the last thing he wants, to drag this out longer than he already has. His handler told him to sleep- he should obey but he can’t! He can't-

“You look like haven't slept-” Steve stops mid sentence when the realization dawns on him. “You haven't been sleeping, have you.”

It's not a question since Steve already knows the answer. He keeps his eyes locked on the table, head bowed.

Rogers mutters a few swears under his breath. It makes him cringe. His handler- his kind, lenient handler- is frustrated with him. 

He deserves it. He deserves whatever his handler decides to do to him. 

“Just- we'll talk after you sleep more. I'm not ready to deal with this.” Rogers orders, rubbing his face and sighing again. 

He doesn’t move, stuck. What is his handler going to-

“Sleep, Buck!” His handler snaps, exasperated. 

Startled into action, he slinks off to the bedroom. He doesn’t close the door in case he's not allowed, as if that could protect him from what he's dreading.

He chews on the inside of his lip to keep himself from drifting off into his head. It's easy to focus on pain, and it helps keep him aware when he’s being punished. 

But he can’t sleep, even on orders. The waiting for punishment makes it so much worse. What is Rogers going to do? He wasn’t ready, his handler said. That worries him the most. 

He's been so bad Rogers needs time to come up with proper disciplinary action. It'll be the first time he's had a handler who is almost as strong as he is. Broken bones could be incidental without the right control. His teeth sink further into his lip and he tastes blood. 

Rogers could do serious damage if he lost his temper- he doesn’t need anything to but his hands.

Or did Rogers want him in bed for a reason-

He can't help it; a sound escapes him and he clenches his hands in the sheets.

He deserves it. He deserves it. He earned whatever punishment his handler chooses to inflict. He was disobedient and he lied. 

He repeats this mantra over and over again, desperation growing the longer Rogers makes him wait.

\-- --- --

Steve was hoping that giving Bucky some time to sleep would help, but Steve feels his frustration grow as he thinks over what to do. 

It's the same fucking thing- Bucky still doesn't understand that Steve is trying to help! It's not logical at all. 

Steve's done his best to keep himself from showing any kind of negative emotion since Bucky reads expressions so well. He's made sure that Bucky eats, sleeps, and has warm and soft clothes. Everything he was recommended to provide in order to help Bucky distance himself from his experience with Hydra.

But Bucky lies to him about sleeping and he hardly eats anything. Maybe Bucky can't sleep-

Steve stops pacing. Bucky may not be able to sleep well- god knows Steve’s has issues with insomnia and his own nightmares. And Bucky wouldn't say anything about it because when has Bucky ever complained about anything? He'd never bring up anything that would lead to a doctor's visit- of course he wouldn't. 

It's possible Bucky is scared of admitting something is wrong. Steve thinks back to the conversation he had with Bucky right after Sam left. He could be having a hard time adjusting. Also… it's so  _ Bucky _ . Bucky before the war. Eating less, working more all while downplaying the situation so no one fusses over him. 

It's selfish to draw these comparisons when the source of Bucky’s stress is more malicious than economic depression. Bucky  _ still  _ doesn't want to bother Steve with whatever he thinks he can manage.

This time Steve wants to help and he's not going to let Bucky brush him off until he explains what's going on. 

\-- --- --

The door opens slowly. 

His handler sits on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. A hand reaches for his shoulder- he flinches even though he shouldn’t. It’s been _ hours _ and what little composure he had was lost to the long wait. 

“Hey, it's just me.” Rogers says as he draws his hand back. His tone is pleasant, nothing hinting at what's coming. The Soldier waits, laying forcibly still on the bed. His stomach twists at the sickly sweet act Rogers is pulling on him.  _ Just get it over with already- _

“Bucky?” The hand returns but this time he doesn’t move away. 

“Yes?” He at least remembers that he's not allowed to say ‘sir’ around this handler. The less mistakes he makes, the less frustration and anger he will cause Rogers.

Following orders is all he's good for.

“What's going on? I know you haven't been feeling well.” Rogers sounds calm, but the Soldier knows all too well how fast that can change. 

“I was- trying to-” He can't speak, fear tightening around his throat. Why can't he do  _ something _ right?! 

“It's okay.” His handler soothes, his hand sliding to rest on the Soldier’s back in between his shoulder blades. He closes his eyes and presses his face into Roger’s bed. This is worse than he was expecting- why does Rogers act like everything is fine? He has clearly earned his handler’s frustration. 

“I hate seeing you like this, Buck. I want to help but you won't tell me what's wrong.” 

He shouldn’t-

But he doesn’t want to play whatever game this is-

“ _ Please _ ,” he begs into the mattress, not wanting to look up.

“‘Please’ what?” Rogers asks, and it reminds the Soldier of Pierce. He shivers.

“Please punish me,” he whispers. He knows he’s inviting more trouble to ask, but the sooner it starts the sooner it’s over. 

Rogers draws his hand back so fast, the Soldier thinks he’s going to be hit. Unfortunately, his handler doesn’t do anything the way he’s expecting. 

“Why would I ever punish you?” His handler demands after a moment, voice tight with… anger? Rogers is too hard to read and the Soldier is not about to turn his head to look at his face. 

He cringes. 

“I’ve lied to you.” He hates it when they have him repeat his infractions back to them. If he says one they were not aware of, they add punishment; If he forgets one, he’s hiding it. No amount of pleading can change a handler’s mind, even if he really didn’t remember-

“About what: sleeping?” Rogers asks like he doesn’t know, but the caution in his tone says otherwise.

“Not just that.” 

“Then what else…?” 

He can hear Rogers put it together, helped by the doubt planted by Wilson. When Rogers jumps to his feet, the Soldier knows it's not long until his handler snaps. 

“What did you lie about?”

He whines, unable to meet his handler’s eyes. Rogers paces back and forth, aggravated. 

“ _ Bucky!” _

He gets out of bed to drop to his knees, wincing at the flare of old pain through him. 

“I'm sorry- please. I was just trying to-”

“Trying to do what?” His handler cuts in, raking a hand through his short blond hair. “Keep me happy? We’ve talked about this; you don’t have to do that anymore, Buck!” 

Rogers must see the way he is shaking, because he walks back over to him. He can’t help shrinking back when his handler moves as if to touch him. 

The ragged breath lets him now Roger is upset. Very upset. 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Rogers says, careful as he kneels down, too.

“You should, please.” The Soldier begs, tripping over the words. “Please, I'll be good- whatever you want. I can be better, just tell me-” 

“Bucky, stop-” 

“Please,  _ please _ ! I know I've disobeyed- I can take it. Anything. I'll be perfect for you, please-”

“No one's going to punish you!” Rogers argues, exasperated. 

His control snaps. 

“You're not making any sense!” He snarls and pins his handler with a glare. 

Rogers freezes, dumbfounded. His eyes are comically wide. 

“What do I have to do to get you to react?!” The Soldier continues, voice cracking with deep rooted malice. When he feigns like he's going to get up, Rogers jerks back. 

It's instinct- a clear flinch from a handler. The Soldier capitalizes in an instant.

Metal hand on Rogers’ throat. Other hand braced on the floor, his handler pinned under him with a knee pressing into the vulnerable flesh of Roger’s abdomen. 

Roger stays very still, even though he could turn this into an ugly fight. (But the Soldier wants ugly; he needs this). 

“Fucking react, damn it!” The Soldier hisses, and slams Rogers into the floor for emphasis. On someone else the force their head meeting hardwood floor would dazed them. With his handler, however, he just grits his teeth. 

Rogers tenses underneath him, eyes darting over the Soldier’s face. He feels Rogers swallow through the metal plating of his hand.

“Bucky, I don’t understand-”

“Clearly not,” the Soldier interrupts and Rogers shuts his mouth. “How the hell did they let you be a handler? You're ineffective-”

“I am  _ not  _ your handler,” Rogers argues, horrified. The Soldier growls, irritated. 

“Not a good one. Do you even know how to handle The Asset, or did you decide to fuck everything up?!”

Roger’s expression twists. “I'm trying to help-”

The Soldier tightens his grip and Rogers chokes. He lets his handler breathe after a moment. Rogers gasps, then coughs. The pounding of Roger’s heart travels up his arm, the tech sensitive enough to feel the rapid increase in heart rate.

The Soldier focuses on those small pulses, eyes locked onto the faint flutter of the common carotid artery through such a thin layer of skin. A blade could slice through with ease. All the way across muscles, arteries and veins, and cartilage. Unconsciousness would hit almost immediately due to the drop in blood pressure. Then he'd bleed out within minutes, enhanced healing be damned-

“-cky?” A voice, hoarse and hesitant. Someone touches his side. 

The Soldier scrambles to keep his mind from wandering, but he can't-

Covered in thick, clotting blood. His own. Other's. He can smell this heaviness in the air, taste metal in his mouth. Gunpowder. Flashes of precious time spent alone with a rifle, waiting. Post mission punishment- all the strength he had hours ago lost as soon as they touch him. 

He couldn’t- they can- 

It's too much- he doesn’t want to remember-

Recoils away, off of whoever he had pinned. Part of him knows where to hide. 

Away.

Away from here-

He needs-  _ relax, good boy _ . 

_ Two targets, a couple- _

Laughter when he screams-

_ Let's try… perfect! _

He needs a mission.

Now- go now-

“-cky, wait!” 

No, they can't stop him! He can't let them-

\-- --- --

It fades into a soft blur. Like early morning fog.

The Soldier knows how to work like this; he's suffered through worse.

The quietness is… soothing.

\-- -- --

He'd give anything to end it all. 

\-- --- --

_ Then could you stop me,  _

_ Whenever I tell you that I’m alright. _

_ I know I’ll make everything look just fine.  _

_ Oh, if you wonder what it feels like,  _

_ Stop me when you’ve had enough.” _

_ “Stop Me When You’ve Had Enough” by Nural ; Entitlement _

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I saw Civil War today and it was interested. Not as good as TWS, but still good. 
> 
> In more serious news, this will probably be the last update for a while. I have college application and lots of art to do over the summer, but as soon as that's done I'll be back. Please forgive me for my slow updating. Maybe over the summer I'll post some one-shots in the same timeline, just to give y'all something!
> 
> Any comments really make my day. I wish you could see how much a comment makes me smile :) And if you have a critique or you are confused about something, ask me here or on my tumblr and I'll be more than willing to talk to you about all the thought behind this fic.


	7. "Strife" by Trivium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After bolting off, Bucky starts spiraling out of control. Steve is searching for him, frantically trying to find Bucky before something terrible happens.
> 
> Just because Bucky is within reach doesn't mean he's safe.  
> Just because Bucky is safe doesn’t mean he’s okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I’ve only taken Spanish for three years and so my Spanish might be incorrect/rusty. Correct me if I’m wrong! (Steve’s Spanish is going to be a little broken on purpose c: )
> 
> Warnings: Drug abuse/addiction (Bucky: mostly painkillers and sedatives/depressants), body horror (dead body with gore and bugs), eating disorder (Bucky: weight loss due to not eating), mentions of non-consensual drug use, mentions of graphic violence, self-harm (nail-biting from Steve and actual injuries on Bucky's end), self-blaming for victimization (Bucky)

_“My anxiety’s clawing,_

_Out from deep within me,_

_It burns within as my throat begins to cauterize._

 

_This negativity’s leeching,_

_Any shred of composure,_

_Rational has decayed and left me bound in madness._

\-- --- --

_Timestamp: 2016.02.09 // 18:34:16 - 19:07:28_

Call from Rogers, Steven G. (alias: Captain America).

[ **Details:**

 **Security** : Secure; standard encryption. Recorded call on secure file.

 **Discussion Summary** : Cpt. Rogers expressed concern over the location of “Bucky” Sgt. James Buchanan Barnes (alias: The Winter Soldier).

 **Mood of “Cpt. Rogers”** : Anxious; stressed; concerned.

 **Behavior of “Cpt. Rogers”** : Abnormal behavior; normal behavior regarding circumstances surrounding “Sgt. Barnes”.

 **Mood of “A. Stark”** : Mild annoyance; caution.

 **Behavior of “A. Stark”** : Abnormal behavior; abnormal behavior regarding circumstances surrounding “Sgt. Barnes”. Previous emotions: anger; frustration; fear; impulsiveness.

 **Outcome** : Decision to keep tabs on any and all potential sightings of “Sgt. Barnes”. “A. Stark” agrees to help when needed, offers to talk to contacts. “Cpt. Rogers” appears somewhat calmed by this agreement.

 **Time Elapsed** : 17 minutes, 12 seconds.]

* * *

 

_Timestamp: 2016.02.09 // 19:07:45_

**> Vocal Input** from “A. Stark”: Hey, JARVIS. Let’s keep a running tab on any Mr. Metal Arm sightings, yeah? And send a note to Maria and Pepper. Secure server for all of it.

 **> Vocal Output: **Already scanning open channels, sir. Contact with Sharon Carter (Carter, Sharon. CIA: Terrorist Division) would also be beneficial.

[Creating a secure link with server #5jsp32”]

[Fabricating secure emails to “Potts, Pepper” and “Hill, Maria”]

 **> Vocal Input** from “A. Stark”: Yeah, sure. A Carter is just what we need. Add Rhodey, too. See if he can get in contact with the domestic powers that be to keep them off of Cap’s boyfriend.

[Sent emails to “Potts, Pepper” and “Hill, Maria”]

[Fabricating secure emails to “Carter, Sharon” and “Rhodes, James”]

 **> Vocal Output**: If Sgt. Barnes goes international, it may be harder to keep him safe from the CIA or other organizations, not to mention independent mercenaries that may be looking for him.

[Sent emails to “Carter, Sharon” and “Rhodes, James”]

 **> Vocal Input** from “A. Stark”: We’ll worry about that if it happens, bud. Hopefully, the US has enough to keep him busy.

* * *

 

_Timestamp: 2016.02.09 // 23:10:44_

**To** : Tony Stark (ironman@securestarkindustries.com)

 **From** : Sharon C. (carter.sharon@securestarkindustries.com)

 **Subject** : Barnes

So far we’ve not seen anything international that’s directly caused by Barnes, but he’s been causing some ripples in international white-collar crime. The FBI might have some more intel, but it’s quiet on this side. I’ll see if any of my COs know anything and if there is any kind of plan in place to handle him.

I’ll keep an eye out and keep Steve in the loop as I know more.

-Sharon

* * *

 

_Timestamp: 2016:02:10 // 01:49:38_

[Recorded call between “Maria Hill” and “Anthony ]

 **MH** : “You don’t do anything by halves, do you?” [Tone: irritated]

 **AS** : “Hey, I’m just passing on a message, alright?”

[M. Hill sighs]

 **MH** : “This is what I got from some leftover SHIELD contacts.”

[File delivered: 43 .jpeg images ; 57 MB]

 **AS** : “Aww- jesus, Maria. I really didn't need HD murder pics.”

[“A. Stark” scrolls through the photos. Heart rate increases by 28%]

 **AS** : “This is really-”

 **MH** : “As far as anyone can tell; it's the Soldier’s handiwork. We're still not sure who these people are-” [Tone: grim]

 **AS** : “Are they Hydra?”

 **MH** : “So far. For Barnes’ sake, let's hope it stays that way.”

 **AS** : “Damn it.”

 **MH** : “I don’t know if we can handle the fallout if Barnes is killing innocent people after the trial.”

[A. Stark sighs]

 **AS** : “Yeah, I get it. We gotta stop him before he’s out of control.”

 **MH** : “How does Steve feel about this?”

 **AS** : “He wants to give Barnes space; the whole nine yards of not wanting to infringe on Barnes’ sense of independence or whatever.” [Tone: sarcastic]

 **MH** : “I’d prefer not to wait, since Barnes’ kills are getting… messier. Like he’s losing control.”

 **AS** : “Are you worried he will?”

 **MH** : “Can you guarantee he won’t?”

[Pause in conversation]

 **AS** : “Well, fuck.”

 **MH** : “I’d rather it be us to bring him in. Otherwise, eventually Barnes is going to kill the wrong person and the teams sent out to find him _will_ use lethal force.”

 **AS** : “We’ve seen a lethal manhunt for the Winter Soldier and look how effective _that_ was.”

 **MH** : “Yes, and people died. If that happens now, Barnes will be put on trial for murder and we can’t pull the insanity plea twice.”

[A. Stark sighs again and drinks his coffee]

 **AS** : “Do you have a recent spotting of the problem child?”

 **MH** : “Officially, he’s been in Nevada. Last time law enforcement had a run in with him was two days ago a few miles from a little town called Ruth.”

 **AS** : “A run in?”

 **MH** : “No one was hurt. It looks like Barnes was looking for a place to settle down for the night. Local cop thought he was a hitchhiker and harassed Barnes to get out of town. Cop saw a flash of silver under a glove and backed off.”

 **AS** : “Smart. I’ll see if Rhodey wants to take a little vacation with me.”

 **MH** : “Natasha’s already looking into it, but Barnes is probably long gone.”

 **AS** : “I swear to god, I’ll punch Rogers in the teeth if this ends up being ‘Find Bucky’ the extended sequel.”

 **MH** : “I’m sure Steve’ll help.”

 **AS** : [Muttering:] “Yeah, and he’ll be all mopey and blue the entire fucking time.”

 **MH** : “He’d really appreciate it. And so will a lot of other people once we get Barnes off the streets.”

 **AS** : “I get it. As soon as I have anything more than a whisper of where he is, I’ll fly out myself.”

 **MH** : “Thanks.”

 **AS** : “I’d say ‘no problem’ but this seems like a pretty big problem.”

 **MH** : “Go get some sleep, Tony.”

 **AS** : “You’re not my mother.” [tone: mock irritation]

 **MH** : “Neither is Pepper, but she’s my boss, and she said that since she’s out of town, I need to make sure you’re sleeping a somewhat reasonable amount.”

 **AS** : “I think, technically, I’m your boss because my name’s on your paycheck.”

 **MH** : “Hm… sure. It’s not like you gave up being the CEO of Stark Industries to Pepper or anything.”

[A. Stark rests his head onto his desk and groans.]

 **MH** : “Goodnight, Tony.” [Tone: amused]

 **AS** : “Whatever, Hill.”

[Call ended at 02:02:25

 **Elapsed time** : 12 minutes, 47 seconds]

\-- --- --

Seeing Captain America anxious is the kind of event that usurps belief systems. The compound is crawling with federal agents, all who glance at the three of them with in outright surprise, interest, or annoyance. Steve can’t stay still, looking around and bouncing on the balls of his feet like he’s spoiling for a fight. Not for the first time, Tony’s glad the suit covers up his face. Rhodey looks good- but then again, Rhodey always looks so professional and serious even without the suit.

“Colonel Rhodes, Captain Rogers, and Mr. Stark,” a man in a black suit says, pulling away from a conversation with two people wearing jackets with FBI written on the back. He’s a grim looking man, with dark hair and eyes that appear disapproving under his heavy eyebrows. JARVIS pulls up the man’s name and credentials even as Steve reaches out to shake his hand. Aaron Hotchner, Male. 45 years old. Unit Chief of Quantico's Behavior Analysis Unit of the FBI.

JARVIS also points out that members from the local law enforcement’s violent crimes unit is here, too.

“Agent Hotchner.” Steve replies, then nods to a few other agents over Hotchner’s shoulder. He’s using his very best ‘Captain America’ voice, deeper and slower in cadence than his usual speech patterns. Tony knows he should just keep talking to the minimum since he’s the least diplomatic of the three of them, but Steve has the celebrity status of being Captain America over Rhodey.

“Sir,” Rhodey greets, voice mechanical from inside the War Machine but respectful. Hotchner looks over them, lingering on Steve, whose eyes flick over the people crawling outside of the building, processing the evidence.

“Before I bring you back, Captain, you need to wear gloves. Colonel Rhodes and Mr. Stark; as long as you remain in your suits, you don’t have to worry about contaminating the crime scene.” To his credit, Hotchner acts like he’s dealt with them before. Steve tucks away his fingerless leather combat gloves into his pocket before pulling the nitrile ones on.

“Has the area been cleared?” Tony asks, because he’s not exactly looking forward to seeing who else Barnes has ripped apart. He’s worried that this will be it, the day when it’s revealed that Barnes snapped and killed someone innocent. Again.

“Yes, a few hours ago. I don’t think that Sergeant Barnes would have stayed around.”

Yeah, it doesn’t really sounds like Barnes’ style to hang around corpses like a scavenger; it’s the living that interests him. Not that his targets stay alive for long.

“Probably not,” Steve agrees, but he’s not fooling anyone with his disappointment. Hotchner stays silent, following Steve’s gaze to the sheets covering the bodies lying in the grass. Tony counts over fifteen shrouds.

If this is Hydra, he doesn’t feel that bad. Clarification: If it’s the part of Hydra that are criminals and sadists. Not the people who got sucked in without a clue of what they were getting into.

Can Barnes tell the difference between true believers and those just here for the paycheck?

Does he care?

“Hey, Hotch!”

Hotchner turns around. A dark-skinned, handsome man waves the FBI agent over, and Steve follows just half a step behind. Tony follows Steve out of obligation.

Rhodey, already chatting to a blonde woman with his faceplace down, sends a meaningful look Tony’s way. He’s concerned that Tony’s so subdued, but Tony is here because Steve asked, not because he’s here to do Barnes a favor. People may call Tony crude, but he’s not one to crack jokes around corpses. He can recognize a serious situation when he sees one.

The agent leads them into the building, past the trashed office rooms with papers sticking to dried blood puddles, past the indentations of bullet fragments on the stone walls. This base feels like a bunker, with serious iron doors with interlocking teeth and security scanners isolating the rooms and hallways.

Too bad they couldn’t stop Barnes’ rampage; the metal is buckled and warped from what looks like explosives. The scanners are in pieces, hanging off the wall from wires.  In the blackened soot, JARVIS identifies scratches on the edges of the doors congruent with a hand strong enough to rip into metal. There are no windows anywhere, but if there was, Tony thinks Barnes would have smashed every single pane to make his point clear.

A coffee cup from Starbucks lies discarded against the wall, crushed. Both he and Steve look at it as they walk past. Barnes must have caught them unawares- not that you could really prepare for the entirety of the Winter Soldier blasting his way into your compound.

“You might want to cover your nose,” the agent warns as he pushes open a heavy iron door. Steve and Hotchner recoil back, coughing.

What the hell did Tony get himself into this time.

\-- --- --

The putrid stench of rotting flesh brings involuntary tears to Steve’s eyes, sharp enough to cut through the air like lighting. The agent- Morgan, he remembers- watches Steve as he forces himself to exhale, and carefully draws in his next breath through his mouth. The temptation to throw up ebbs a little, but not much. Tony is the only one of them who doesn’t have to cover his nose, but even he stays a few feet away from the door.

When Steve places a hand on the doorframe, the unexpected rough edge cause him to glance over. Deep grooves in the metal, wrapping around the outside frame and running off the edge onto stone. He can hear the screech of metal fingers digging for some kind of purchase, a chance to get away.

Steve steps into the room first, heart in his throat.

He falters-

“Oh, god.”

Bucky, what did you do?

There is blood all over the floor-

“Don’t touch anything,” Hotchner warns even as a team of forensic photographers slip into the room. How many times did they have to do this to not otherwise react when faced with gruesome crime scenes? Steve’s been to war; he knows the monstrosities men commit against one another. But this- it’s Bucky.

 _Bucky did this_.

Morgan, to his credit, only coughs a little before composing himself with a hand over his mouth and nose. He drifts over to that goddamn chair to peer at the body locked into place. The rooms sags in the heat, spitting out flies and fumes into the hall now that the seal separating it from the outside world is broken. Hotchner follows as Steve, reluctant but unable to look away, approaches.

He barely notices Tony excusing himself.

The body is so decimated that Steve can’t even guess what the person looked like. He’s pretty sure the victim is- _was_ \- male… probably. Organs spill from the abdominal cavity in a way that isn’t accidental. Bucky must have-

Steve turns away, consumed by guilt and horror as he fights to bury the scream building in his throat. Maybe he did make a sound, because Hotchner has him by the arm and pulls him out, away until Steve can’t walk anymore. He crumples down and lands on his ass with his back against the wall.

He’s glad Hotchner doesn’t say anything as Steve yanks off his helmet and throws it to the side. The FBI agent doesn’t even try to calm Steve down, but Hotchner deliberately deepens his inhales and pauses before exhaling. An unspoken anchor for Steve to reach for when he’s ready to stop panicking and get his shit together. But for now, Steve allows himself the humiliation of sitting with his knees drawn up to his chest, his face hidden from view as he forces himself not to let the tears fall.

Yeah, don’t mind Captain America losing his fucking mind in the hallway.

The hysteria comes out as a laugh instead of a scream, thankfully. He could pass off the laughter as self-deprecating, but Steve doesn’t bother to look up or try and defend his appearance of calm authority. Agent Hotchner has the monopoly here, and for once Steve’s content to let someone else be in charge. People walk by, but no one comments on Steve hiding from his fucking problems. He can feel Hotchner fixing his impressive glare on those who slow down, and they quickly speed up again.

“I’m sorry about all of this.” Steve says into his knees. His voice is hoarse, ragged even to his own ears.

“It’s part of the job,” Hotchner replies. It doesn’t sound like he’s making an excuse for Steve, somehow. It might be because Hotchner knows how to talk to people, being in the BAU and all of that.

“He needs help.”

Steve raises his head to look at Hotchner. The agent's gaze hold no pity, only serious honesty. Steve is thankful Hotchner isn't treating him like glass. He knows he's a mess; move on.

“Sgt. Barnes was found not guilty of his crimes because of his mental instability due to decades of torture.” Hotchner speaks to Steve as if he's holding a press conference, firm and no room for argument. “No political figure is going to follow through on threats to bring him in again as long the FBI continues to prove his victims are Hydra. But you need to get him help as soon as you possibly can, do you understand?”

Steve nods. “Yes, I know-”

“Professional, round the clock supervision.” Hotchner cuts in without any heat, clear on making himself heard. “I don't need him to be locked up, but he _cannot_ be a threat to others- or himself- for much longer. This is devolution. We see it a lot. Loss of control at a crime scene means his sense of self and his mental awareness are unraveling.”

Steve finds his eyes drawn to the open doorway down the hall. If needless violence is inversely related to Bucky’s self-control… then Bucky must be on the razor's edge of falling apart.

“He'll get the best support I can find,” Steve promises.

“Good. Find him quickly, Captain. For everyone.”

Hotchner then looks over Steve’s shoulder, and back to Steve, expectant. “I'm going help my team process the room. You don't have to-”

Steve shakes his head, uncurling and pushing himself off the floor. He offers Hotchner a hand up, and both of them take the reluctant walk back after Steve clips his helmet onto his belt.

The skinny kid- jesus, Steve's gotta stop saying that like he's almost one hundred- waits at the door, wavy brown hair an untamed halo framing his face. It takes Steve a moment to place his name.

“Doctor Reid.”

The young man smiles faintly before launching into conversation with Agent Hotchner, words rapid and too technical for Steve to follow. Steve lets their voices trail off as he joins Agent Morgan at the body again.

“We can’t get any prints off our Doe.” Morgan says when Hotchner and Dr. Reid join them. He reaches out, gentle, and lifts the victim's mangled fingers. The tips have been cut, destroying any chance of a fingerprint.

Dr. Reid pulls on his own gloves and probes at the shattered jaw. Maggots, stirred up, squirm away from the agent’s fingers. Some of them spill down onto the exposed intestines. Steve swallows down the desire to throw up, narrowing his eyes and clenching his jaw hard enough to feel teeth grind.

_Jesus Christ._

“Hm… I doubt we could get a dental print accurate enough to ID the body.” Reid muses, then runs the tips of his fingers over the victim’s head. “I’d say our victim is male, age unknown.” The young agent doesn’t seem to mind the gore, calm and focused. Steve watches as he checks over the entire body, forcing himself to not look away as Reid comments on potential injuries.

Broken zygomatic arch, likely both sides. Broken nasal bone. Two black eyes, Tongue left intact. Minimal head trauma. Broken mandible, broken and missing teeth. Bruising around the neck. Broken ribs. Evisceration. Ruptured intestines. Each finger broken, with deep cuts down to bone to ruin fingerprints. No damage to legs or feet as far as anyone can tell.

“This is complete character elimination,” Hotchner concludes, more serious than Steve’s ever seen him. “He wanted this man to suffer. Why?”

It takes a long time to die from a gut wound. Combine with the agony of such injuries would cause, and Steve’s guessing the man spent hours suffering before blood loss and shock did him in. Did Bucky remain in the room with him, watching with apathy as the man probably screamed and begged just like Bucky must have done when Hydra threw him into the chair for wipes? Or did Bucky leave him to rot, letting the heavy door slam behind him as he left his victim to certain death?

“We’ve seen this behavior before,” Morgan starts off, speaking slowly and his eyes on Steve. “Not as drastic, but still with the broken jaws, broken fingers. Defacement.”

Steve cringes, even though he knows.

“Past victims considered, our John Doe was probably in a position of power. I’d guess Sgt. Barnes either hunted our victim down or stumbled upon him, and it brought up some memories of extreme abuse.”

Morgan doesn’t say it, but Steve _knows._ He’s followed Bucky’s trial of bodies before. There is a clear correlation between those who committed the worst crimes against Bucky and the state of their corpses.

This man must have done something horrific if Bucky left him like this.

Steve looks up from where he’s trying to control his breathing and he finds three pairs of concerned gazes on him. It’s enough. He doesn’t excuse himself when he turns abruptly and leaves.

He can see Rhodes and Tony watching him as he walks out, but they don’t stop him. He walks into the surrounding forest until the bustle of people is a faint buzz in his ear and that’s when he sits down for the second time.

Steve cries.

\-- --- --

CAPTAIN AMERICA TAKES NO SHIT FROM ANYONE!!!!

[Video description: Captain America is walking to his motorcycle and paparazzi are bothering him, yelling questions about Bucky and this or Bucky and that. He doesn’t answer. Then, a someone clearly asks:

“Captain Rogers, do you want America to be great again?”

He frowns a little as he hops on his motorcycle. “ Support Trump? I’m socialist.”

Reporters go wild as he shoots off on his motorcycle.]

 

> > OMG STEVEN GRANT ROGERS SUPPORTS BERNIE SANDERS
> 
> >> this made my day XD “Support Trump? I’m socialist” !!!!!!!!!!
> 
> >>>”make America great again” my ass. Steve Rogers has said multiple times that he likes the 21st century, even if it confused him.
> 
> >>>> I’m glad we saw him tho. He's been so quiet :ccccccccc
> 
> >>>>> he looks so sad and tired D:  #make cap happy again 2k16

\-- --- --

Natasha can’t find anything useful on the video besides the fact that Barnes has clearly broken a leg. The feed is a little grainy and skips a bit, but all in all, pretty top notch for such a shitty perimeter camera for a small, overlooked safehouse.

He limps heavily on his left side, moving from tree to tree for support until he has to walk over ten yards unassisted to reach the front door. But still, Barnes makes it up the creaky wooden steps and disappears from view.

There is no feed from inside the house. She fast forwards through the hours to find when Barnes left. Four hours… seven hours… fifteen hours… There. He’s leaving now, still limping. It must be a bad break if he hasn’t healed from it. But why hasn’t he allowed it to heal by staying? He didn’t look rushed or on the run on his way to the safe house.

Natasha pauses the video and studies Barnes. Same uniform with lots of body armor in black. A Backpack that looks full, but not overstuffed. Good, sturdy boots. As for weapons, she can’t see any besides the silhouette of a rifle he has slung over his back. She can only guess at what he’s taken from the weapon’s vault hidden back in the closet. The ammunition store is depleted, but Natasha cannot pin it all on Barnes with the chance that others have used this safe house.

It’s not lavishly stocked, but well off to keep a few people comfortable for a week or two. MREs, bottled water, a working toilet and shower. Lights that still work. The occasional spider web in the corner. Mold isn’t spreading through the lower level, and the cots all have clean sheets stored in a watertight chest. The bedding smells a little stale from years spent locked away.

The kitchen stove runs off gas, and the windows all have blackout curtains. Big, warehouse-like trunks kept the canned food from attracting the attention of wildlife. There even is a dog crate in the corner of the living room, complete with a rug with two bowls. She checked the place for bugs and other surveillance equipment just as Barnes might have done, finding nothing besides a house line phone.

She does not touch it.

Barnes didn’t bother to clean up after himself. Natasha can't decide if he doesn’t care or he wasn't thinking clearly enough to remember.  She finds rust-stained bandages and gauze in the trash. The used syringes in the biohazard container under the sink has her cringe.

Carefully, she pours out the contents on the tile floor and uses her shoe to separate the uncapped needles from the small vials. She picks them up: epinephrine, morphine. Almost nothing left in them. Not enough to draw into a syringe, Natasha bets. The inscription on the labels says the vials are built for multi-use, complete with a preservative and antimicrobial component. Who knows how many more of these Barnes has- and uses.

She finds old blood stains on the edge of the shower curtain and in the grout between the tiles near the sink. A thin, flaking drip trails down the underside of the sink bowl. On the dark wood paneling outside of the bathroom, Natasha follows a slow-dripping trail of blood to the door, some of it scuffed by Barnes’ shoes.

Under the couch in the living room are two small, round, and yellow pills hidden between the wall and the leg of the couch. She pulls them out and places them in the bag with the vials. Sniffing the couch, she can smell the faint scent of old sweat. Another smear of blood darkens the leather.

It takes her less than an hour to properly clean the blood from the safe house, and then she carefully replaces all the needles into the biohazard container. Natasha gathers all the trash in a trash bag to take with her. What concerns her is the lack of food waste. She finds a half empty bottle of water in the kitchen trash, but that’s it. Nothing else that hints that Barnes has eaten anything.

To wrap up, she erases the day that shows Barnes and today’s video, then goes back a few years and adds in two day’s worth of looped film. She sets the computer to re-date every day after that as two days earlier so the times are the same and match up with the calendar date. Now her own arrival and departure will be covered.

On her way out she installs three small motion sensors to cover both entrances in case anyone else is seeking refuge or for a trail on Barnes- or herself. Natasha hooks them up to her work account and sets it to alert her current phone with a notification and live video feed.

She leaves the small cabin alone in the woods. If Barnes comes back or a weary Hydra agent is looking for a crash pad, she’ll know about it.  

\-- --- --

Steve’s footsteps echo in the long, empty hallway. Something keeps dripping, but he can’t find the source of it, only red splatters appear on the floor. It’s dark, dark enough that he can hardly see. Only a little bit of light reflects off his shield.

His breathing is dangerously loud in the silence as he inches forward, looking for danger. Something isn’t right. The hair on the back of Steve’s neck raises, sensing danger. On impulse, Steve whips around.

Bucky grabs him by the throat. Steve, startled by his sudden appearance, doesn’t react fast enough to twist away from the punch. Pain explodes through his face, and he drops his shield to try and pry Bucky’s hand off. He chokes and gags on blood in his mouth, running down his throat and trickling into his lungs.

“-cky!” He gasps out before Bucky follows up with another punch that knocks the wind out of him with a sickening snap of ribs. Coughing, Steve looks up and meets Bucky’s eyes, flinty and unforgiving as ice. The hand on his throat is Bucky’s right one, crushing and unyielding. Bucky’s left fist is dripping crimson.

Worst of all, Bucky’s face is devoid of emotion. No recognition in his hard gaze.

Steve struggles, fighting and kicking. He can’t- Bucky would never forgive Steve if he didn’t stop himself from getting killed. Black spots appear on his field of vision, and Steve can’t talk anymore. He can’t make a sound besides a faint rasp. _Bucky is going to collapse his trachea_. Steve can’t get a hold of Bucky to escape his grip without hurting him, so Steve places his hand on Bucky’s wrist to break it. Bucky’s metal hand clamps down and snaps Steve’s metacarpals before Steve can react.

The wave of agony is enough to stop Steve in his tracks. Bucky pushes Steve down into-

Steve rears up, but he’s losing consciousness from lack of oxygen and his brain is screaming at him to breathe but Bucky’s grip is a vice on his throat-

A flash of panic rushes through Steve when cuffs pin his legs into _the chair_. Oh my god, stop it, Bucky! Just before his vision completely blacks out, Bucky lets go to drop Steve into the seat. He pulls Steve’s arms to the armrests. The iron restraints tighten until he can’t move his limbs.

Steve opens his mouth to protest, but instead of words maggots fall out, crawling and wriggling in his lap and down his throat-

Steve wakes, throwing up two hundred miles from the compound.

\-- --- --

“Lo siento,” Steve croaks to the very nice old latina lady that is cleaning up his vomit on the floor. I’m sorry.

He’s huddled up in the chair with the comforter around him, shivering. She smiles at him and says something to him in rapid-fire Spanish, but he blinks at her in confusion.

“No, uh, hablo español. Perdónme.” I don’t speak Spanish, forgive me.

Her nose wrinkles when she grins at him. She speaks slowly enough for him to listen. “¿Habla un poco de español, no?” You speak a little Spanish, no?

Steve manages to smile a little bit. “Sí, un poco. No bueno.” Yes, a little. No good.

“¡Mis nietos van a ser muy contento cuando yo les cuento que el Capitán América estaba aquí en Tejas y hablo español con mi!” Something about her grandchildren and Captain America talking to her here in Texas.

She continues to scrub at the spot on the cheap carpet floor with cleaning agents. Her curly hair has more silver than black, drawing Steve’s attention enough to want to draw it. A small cross hangs around her neck, glinting from where the lamp hits it.

“Um… ¿Cuanto años... sus nietos?” How old are your grandchildren? Steve has to fumble a bit for the proper possessive, relieved that he’s able to focus on speaking another language rather than mulling over his nightmare.

Her grin widens, her eyes sparkling. “Mi nieto está once, y mi nietas están siete. Ellos son bonitos y saludables, gracias a Dios.” My son is eleven, and my granddaughters are seven, and that’s all Steve catches.

“¿Dos nietas están siete?” Steve asks if both of them are seven, because he doesn’t know the word for ‘twins’.

“Sí, son gemelos.”

Steve smiles at her pride at her grandchildren but stumbles when he tries to remember the word for lucky. “Um… Usted está… ¿bien?” This time, his smile is not as strained.

She cocks her head at him, a patient smile on her face. Steve tries again.

“¿Usted está bien... porque sus nietos, sí?” You are good because your grandchildren, right?

She giggles at him, using her wrist to try to hide her amusement at his butchered attempt at a compliment. “¡Lo siento, señor! Pero sí, yo tengo suerte.” She takes off her yellow gloves and puts them in her bag of trash. I’m sorry, sir! But yes, I am lucky.

“No ‘señor’, por favor. ‘Steve’.” He asks her to call him Steve, blushing a bit. He knows his phone could translate for him, but where’s the effort in that? He’ll remember it next time if he talks it out.

“Ah, Steve. Mi nombre es Ruth.”  Ruth stands up and looks at him with a concerned frown all mothers seem to perfect. “¿Está enfermo?” Are you sick?

“No, no enfermo.” No, not sick. Steve hesitates, then decides to explain. “... mala noche…” Bad night.

Ruth hums, nodding. “Tengo algo para usted, si espera para… diez minutos.” She has something for him, if he can wait ten minutes.

Steve nods. “Sí, gracias.” He probably won’t go back to sleep tonight. When she leaves, Steve takes out his sketchbook and flips to one of the many blank pages.

He’s in the middle of sketching out a longhorn when he hears a soft knock on the door. Ruth is standing there holding out a steaming mug in her hands, offering it to him.

“Gracias, Señora Ruth.” Steve thanks her and takes a sip. It’s hot milk with some vanilla and cinnamon sugar. “Muy bien, gracias.”

“De nada,” she says with a little wave. It’s nothing.

“Muchas gracias,” Steve insists. “Yo tengo un ...papel... por sus nietos en la mañana.” I have a paper for your grandchildren in the morning. Steve can’t recall the word for gift, but he thinks she understands based on her blinding smile.

“¡Sí, sí! Estoy aquí en la mañana.” Yes, I will be here in the morning.

Steve bids her goodnight and stays up all night drawing, slowly drinking the sweetened milk. It is much more calming that he thought it was going to be, settling warm and soothing in his stomach. But he forces himself to ignore the pull of exhaustion on his eyes.

He searches for Ruth in the morning, but it’s five o’clock and she might be asleep. He places the drawings, a longhorn, a mockingbird, and an armadillo all wearing cowboy hats under the receptionist computer keyboard. He left a huge tip in his room, and the mug cleaned and washed next to it.

A text from Natasha gives him his next coordinates to search. Steve gets into his car (it’s less conspicuous than his motorcycle) and drives away, every so often rubbing at his throat.

\-- --- --

He's struggling to reset the break in his femur when they catch up with him.

He blinks and there are people in the room with him. The Soldier’s heightened senses don't growl at him to react, and the satisfaction curls up through him, distant but warm.

“Bucky,” the voice says, soft. He thinks the man might be one of the manageable ones. His vision distorts the faces of the people here to get him, but he doesn't mind. Not that he remembers people anyways.

“Steve, look at his eyes. He's far gone.”

There, a hand on his cheek. He blinks again and tries to focus on the man kneeling before him. So far, nothing hurts. Only his leg aches where he's cut through muscle down to bone.

“What did you take?”

The man slips the knife from his slack grip. An order. He can… he fumbles for the bottle and the handler- because the blond man is a handler, right? He's pretty sure- picks it up.

“There's no way he's high on Valium; he should burn through it too fast for it to work.” Disbelief.

Mechanical whirring like his arm as the other man reaches out. He doesn’t shy away, but he's not hit even though they don't believe he's telling the truth. Words slip through him mind like blood through water.

“I'll bet my entire company that Valium isn't his only drug of choice.”

They are taking away his things. The handler moves his leg, the broken one, and the resulting pulse of pain at the edge of his mind draws him back.

“It's not your company anymore- it just has your name on it.”

The handlers are not angry. The one wrapping up his leg isn't purposefully careless as he wraps up the gash.

“Bucky, please. Let me help you.”

The other man snorts. “Is he even tracking the conversation?”

He has no idea what's happening. He can hear them talk, but what they say has no meaning. He's still and calm for them, even as his mind wanders further and further away. It's what they want, right? Absolute obedience. He's doing that.

“I don't know. Bucky, can you look at me?”

Hands on him. The Soldier tries to stir, but the thick blanket of drugs settles him down again.

“Damn it. Bucky, look at me.”

He leans into the contact after a pause because he doesn’t know what else to do. His limbs are heavy and his head is too light. He… likes the feeling of not needing to be anything at all.

The part of his mind that usually screams when someone touches him is blissfully silent. It's nice. He's not scared; he does not have the capacity to feel. He's wrapped up in body heat and rough fabric. The Soldier snarls, but the protest is far away. It doesn't even make it to his chest before it fades.

The handler holds him until the rest of the extraction team arrives, and he lets himself fall away…

\-- --- --

_I reach for calm,_

_I starve for a balance unknown,_

_This burden tortures me deep in my soul_

\-- --- --

Steve is not comfortable with taking Bucky to the hospital. Even at a very reasonable compromise of it being the Avenger Tower’s hospital floor built specifically for the Avengers with staff Maria and Natasha personally vetted.

Steve resists because he knows how Bucky would feel. Bucky has explicitly made his position clear on doctors; he hates them and he will do everything in his power to stay away from any kind of medical equipment or personnel. It’s cruel to override Bucky’s fears like it doesn’t matter, but finding Bucky in the state that he’s in eroded away Steve’s resolve on the issue.

He’s not happy about it (and god knows how Bucky is going to react once he’s lucid). Steve picks at his fingernails while he’s waiting for Bucky to get out of surgery, forcing himself to sit still and not pace. The surgeon offered to show Steve the x-ray to describe how the surgical team is going to fix the break in his leg. Steve declined. As long as they can undo the damage that Bucky’s done, he doesn’t want to see. He doesn't think he could handle staring at those fucking metal plates Hydra placed in Bucky’s weight bearing bones to minimize injuries just like the ones the surgeon team is trying to fix.

It takes a couple hours, probably because Bucky’s enhanced healing fucked up a break that couldn’t properly set.

Steve should have brought his sketchbook now that he watches his fingernails bleed a little the more he rips at them with his nails and his teeth. But if he had a pencil in his hand and blank paper, Steve doesn’t think he’d like what he’d be drawing. He can’t get the image out of his head; Bucky slumped against the wall, digging through his own thigh with a knife and blood all over his hands. Pupils blown so wide there was only a thin ring of blue around them. He was so pale, his blood so red.

Was Bucky even aware of what he was doing?

Steve switches to pulling at the stitching in the chair he’s sitting in, annoyance bubbling into anger. What the fuck was Bucky doing taking Valium? Did he take it so he could try and perform surgery on himself?

Did he care that he was bleeding out?

What would Bucky have done if it wasn’t Steve and Tony coming to get him, but Hydra?!

Steve growls to himself. He realizes he’s unraveling the stitching in the chair and moves on to yanking a leaf off the nearby fern to turn it into a wet pile of shredded green fibers in his lap.

Bucky wouldn’t have been able to do a goddamn thing if a Hydra agent walked through the door. That’s what pisses him off the most. It doesn’t make any sense that Bucky would let himself become so vulnerable in such an insecure location.

There was no security; it was just an abandoned building! Bucky wasn’t even on a higher level; he was on ground floor, tucked in behind the maintenance room. First place Steve checked.

He’s on his third leaf when the nurse comes out to get him, not feeling even a hint of embarrassment when she glances down at the green stains under his chewed on fingernails before showing him to Bucky’s room. He gathers up his mess and throws it away when he passes a trashcan.

At least the surgery was a success. For some reason, this doesn’t give Steve much peace of mind.

\-- --- --

_Timestamp: 2016:03:22 // 08:07:15_

[Recorded meeting between Cpt. Steven “Steve” Grant  Rogers, alias “Captain America”, and Natasha “Tasha/Nat” Romanoff, aliases including “Black Widow”, “Natalia Romanova”, etc.]

[N. Romanoff stands at the door of Sgt. “Bucky” Barnes’ hospital room, holding a black backpack.]

 **SGR** : “That’s Bucky’s?”

 **NR** : [A pause]. “Unfortunately.”

 **SGT** : [Frowns]. “Unfortunately?”

 **NR** : “Yes... the doctors had to go through it, to look for-” [Tone: cautious/wary]

 **SGT** : “ _Jesus Christ_. What did they find?”

[NR pulls out a bag, holding it out until SGR take it from her.]

 **SGT** : “What the fuck is this?” [Tone: disbelief]

 **NR** : “Um, medication. That we’re pretty sure he’s been taking.”

 **SGT** : [Spills out the bag on the couch, looking through the bottles and vials.] “Natasha, what is all of this?”

 **NR** : [Hesitates]. “Depressants, mostly. Some stimulants.”

 **SGR** : [Growls]. “What does it mean?”

 **NR** : “It’s bad.”

 **SGR** : [Takes a steadying inhale]. “How bad?” [Tone: strained]

 **NR** : “Bad enough that they’re doing a drug panel to see if he’s really been taking all of these.” [Rushing] “I don’t think- he _shouldn’t_ be taking all of them, but- we can’t tell for sure. They have to confirm, otherwise the withdrawal is going to kill him.”

 **SGR** : [Silent].

 **NR** : “I’m sorry, Steve. They’ve got doctors here that can help him, and funds are not a problem-”

 **SGR** : “Is this the same as the first time, before the trial?” [Tone: flat]

 **NR** : [Silent].

 **NR** : [Quietly] “No, this is… very serious.”

 **SGR** : “Is this- was this because I scared him away? Did I do this-”

 **NR** : “No! Absolutely not!” [tone: startled]

 **SGR** : “You can’t say that for sure-”

 **NR** : [Walks closer to Cpt. Rogers until she’s eye to eye with him] “Did you tell him to take these?”

 **SGR** : [Reluctant]. “No.”

 **NR** : “Then how could this fucking be your fault, Steve?” [tone: exasperated]

 **SGR** : “Don’t tell me Bucky doing this for some goddamn entertainment.” [tone: aggressive]

 **NR** : “He’s trying to cope! It’s like when Tony or I drink too much, or when you spend hours at the gym-”

 **SGR** : [Angry] “I think I’d be okay with drinking over this!”

 **NR** : “You don’t get to pick people’s poisons, Steve! All you can do is help him, and he really needs all the help he can get.”

 **SGR** : [Sits down on the couch, his head in his hands]. [Upset]. “Oh my god, Natasha.”

 **NR** : [Sits down next to Cpt. Rogers, an arm around his shoulders]. “I’m sorry.”

 **SGR** : [Sniffs] “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to help Bucky.”

 **NR** : “You’re stressed and tired. You’ve been chasing Barnes around for a month. Give yourself a break, Steve.”

 **SGR** : “But-”

 **NR** : “The doctors actually know what they’re doing. Let them make the decisions.”

 **SGR** : “I can’t leave him, Tasha.”

 **NR** : “I’m not asking you to leave him, idiot. Come back to my room and play with my cats with me. I haven’t seen them in weeks and they’re very needy.”

 **SGR** : [Smiles a little] “How many do you have now?”

 **NR** : “Seven, but only because Clint brought home another one.” [tone: amused]

 **NR** : [Nudges Cpt. Roger’s shoulder]. “Come on, Steve. I’m asking as a friend. Barnes is not going to wake up for a while, promise.”

 **SGR** : “ I guess I could say ‘hi’ to your cats.”

\-- --- --

Natasha drops onto the floor as soon as she walks through the door, rolling onto her back to see Steve smiling as her black cats run over, crying.

“Hi babies,” she coos. Seven warm cats swarm over her, all of them purring. She scratches heads and behind ears. Steve kneels down when Saint Nicholas butts his head against Steve’s leg, petting his thick, sleek coat.

“Who’s the new one?”

Natasha picks up the lanky adolescent curled up on her chest, kissing her on the nose. “This is Zipper. Clint insisted that she came with the name, but I doubt it.”

“Zipper, huh?” Steve lets Saint Nick chew affectionately on his fingers.

Zipper bats at Natasha’s necklace, needle-point claws catching on her skin. She places Zipper back down, running her hand along Zipper’s spine. Her flashy, neon yellow collar clashes horribly with the cat’s amber eyes. Clint probably did that on purpose.

Natasha hums. Richard tries to sit on her face with good but misguided intentions.

“Ugh, stop it, young man.” She scolds, not meaning it. Steve chuckles when Zipper scales his chest and perches with her back paws on Steve’s shoulder and her front half braced on his head. She starts biting at Steve’s hair, growling.

Saint Nick yowls in protest when Steve removes his fingers from the cat’s mouth to get Zipper down.

“I told you, they’re like toddlers.” Natasha says, pleased that her obnoxious cats are distracting Steve.

“Ouch, excuse you.” Steve winces when Zipper nibbles on his ear. He holds the young cat around her middle, staring her down. Zipper leans forward and licks Steve’s nose with a purr. Saint Nick chews on the edges of Steve’s jeans since he can’t find any fingers.

“Do you have a cheat sheet to tell who is who?” Steve asks when Koshka and Kot try to climb into his lap, the twins meowing for attention. Natasha points to her kitchen.

“I have one on the refrigerator, color coded by their collars.” Armageddon steps on Natasha’s hair, peering down at her with his clear blue eyes. Spider curls around Natasha’s feet, yawning and showing off her missing teeth.

“Your cats are nice.” Steve sits down properly so the twins can stretch in his lap, twisting up together. Zipper tries to chew on Richard’s ruined ears; he hisses at her. She scrambles back over to Natasha, crying.

“Hush. Don’t pick fights if you don’t want to commit, silly.” Natasha watches Steve try to keep them all happy. “You can come and visit them whenever you want. JARVIS’ll let you in.” She offers, keeping her eyes on Armageddon so she doesn’t have to see the surprise on Steve’s face.

“I’d like that.” He accepts after a stunned pause.

“Darcy feeds them when I’m gone, so you can talk to her if you have any trouble.”

“Thank you, Natasha.” Steve says, quiet and sincere.

 She’s trying to be more trusting. The part of her that still sees everyone as a potential threat thinks this is a very bad idea, but Natasha has gotten better at ignoring that voice.

She can trust Steve.

\-- --- --

Whoever was in charge of the interior decorating did a good job at distancing Bucky’s room from looking like a hospital. Warm brown walls, white trim, very comfortable chairs and a couch that folds out into a bed. Even the medical equipment is quieter, nondescript. The room smells like fresh cotton, not the sterilized, dead air of hospitals.

Steve sits on the edge of Bucky’s bed, watching the city out of the fake window installed into the wall. It’s actually really smart, considering Bucky has a nasty habit of breaking windows for a quick exit. For the same reason, they put Bucky in the most centrally located room on the entire floor.

Doctors of every other specialty walk in to talk to him about their plans for Bucky’s this or that and eventually Steve tells them he’s not really in the mood to make any decisions. They leave him alone after that. Only the nurse comes in to adjust the IV, admitting to the fact that the surgeon wants to keep Bucky sedated until his leg has mostly healed.

He understands where she’s coming from, and he can’t find a good reason to protest. So Steve shrugs and says okay because what does he know? Not anything about Bucky anymore

Bucky’s notebook sits on the nightstand by the hospital bed. Steve picks it up. He found it in Bucky’s backpack, flipping through a few pages before he realized what it was. Steve usually wouldn’t go through Bucky’s things, but the drugs give Steve enough of a reason not to trust Bucky with his privacy.

Heroin. Ketamine. Diazepam. Oxycodone. Epinephrine in pills and in vials. Combat enhancers with methamphetamines.

Heavy, hard hitting drugs in the same fucking prescription bottles Hydra used. Thinking about Bucky rifling through medicine cabinets looking for drugs specifically designed for him causes Steve irrational anger. They aren't meant to make Bucky feel good; maybe Steve would understand if they did. These drugs are meant to keep him functional during missions. The adrenaline is to keep him going. The heroin is to shut him down. The diazepam is to keep him calm. If he's injured, they take away his pain.

It is beyond Steve’s capacity to understand. Does Bucky use by habit? Addiction? No one is forcing him to take it anymore, and yet Bucky still seeks it out.

Steve puts the notebook back before he opens it and then lays down next to Bucky. He watches Bucky's chest rise and fall for a while. His fingers find their way to Bucky's hand, idly tracing patterns and following the thin scars along Bucky’s arm. Steve decides they are probably a month old with how faint the discolored skin appears. The last two fingers on Bucky’s hand cannot straighten all the way. It must have healed wrong.

“I'm sorry.” Steve tells Bucky as he leans forward to kiss his cheek.

\-- --- --

Vicky is one of those obnoxious operatives that Rumlow hates to deal with. Arrogance only works if you're fucking competent, and she doesn't seem to know enough information for Rumlow’s liking. She keeps getting sidetracked with questions about The Soldier, which really pisses him off.

She has no idea Rumlow is two fucking seconds from slamming her head into the desk in this moldy ass basement.

“Does he _really_ do anything you'd want? Even-”

“Yes.” Rumlow snaps at the expression on her face. “He's almost always obedient. Get back to the point. I don't have all day.”

Vicky flashes a grin his way that was probably intended to be insinuating. But because she doesn’t know shit, it’s effect is lost on him.

“Ahh, I get it. Touchy subject. Now with the Asset in the wind-”

“I haven't handled him in years, okay? Project Insight was pretty hands off on my part; Pierce wanted to be there personally.” Rumlow cuts her off again, annoyed.

“Just curious. A couple people have been asking why he hasn't gotten to you yet. With the trial and all, he seemed pretty attached.” Vicky hops onto the table, letting her legs dangle in Rumlow’s space.

God fucking damn it all to hell.

Rumlow snorts. “He's fucked in the head. If Pierce or Lukin were still available, he'd be with them.”

“But he's not. The Asset was with _you_ , Agent Rumlow.” Vicky presses.

“I don't know where he is now, if that's what you're asking. It's not like we're friends on Facebook.” Rumlow rolls his eyes, playing it off. “I can’t exactly get him to stop killing Hydra agents if I can’t find him.”

Vicky frowns, just a flicker of emotion before her smile reveals her teeth.

“It’s not really that big of a deal if we play it right. His targets are from Pierce’s era of handling- old power, if you think about it. The ones who are dying of old age if no one gets to them first.”

What the fuck is this? Rumlow leans forward, and Vicky’s eyes light up.

“Are you trying to recruit me for something?”

She hums and picks at her nails, giving him a glance down through her lashes. Jesus, she’s flirty. Blonde, perfectly tanned skin, she looks like a rich suburban mom, not a Hydra agent. Which is probably the point.

“If you’re interested.” She replies, trying to act nonchalant but failing miserably. Whatever she’s talking about, she wants Rumlow on board.

Which leads back to the Soldier. Fucking shit.

“Shoot.” He says instead.

Vicky squints at him,  looking for some kind of hidden motive. Not that she’d be able to see through his poker face.

“Just a new era of Hydra. Less political bullshit, more action.” She starts off, encouraged when Rumlow nods. “Pierce played his hand way too slow because he was scared of exposing Hydra. Now that we’re out in the open, don’t you think trying to go back into hiding is sorta useless?”

“You do have a point,” Rumlow concedes, but then hesitates. “How big is this splinter group? I don’t want to get thrown to the dogs because we don’t have enough fire power.”

“Locally, about thirty. I’ve got a bunch on the fence waiting for your decision.” She admits.

“And they’re waiting on me because…?”

Vicky arches a perfectly sculpted eyebrow at him. “Because you’ve got the Soldier.”

Rumlow leans back, crossing his arms over his chest. At least he has quite a bit of leverage. “Okay, so I can get the firepower to back us up. What’s in it for me?”

Vicky frowns. “What else? Isn’t being handler of the Soldier enough for you?”

Oh, honey.

“Main handler?” He clarifies.

“Yes, yes. And if you’re still able to fight, field handler, too.” Vicky agrees, grinning, thinking she’s got him hooked. “So, does that mean you’re up for it?”

Rumlow thinks it over. There’s no harm, really. Not if they’re going after Hydra. Not if Rumlow can keep an eye on the Soldier. “Sure, why not. I’ll get to work trying to bring the Soldier in.”

“Great-”

He grabs her wrist, pulling her in close. “Tell the rest of the group to back off of him, understand?” Rumlow growls, eyes narrowed. “Your new members are going to end up dead and he’s going to be spooked. I have to bring him and I have to do it alone. This can’t be rushed.”

Vicky snatches her wrist back. “Whatever the hell you need.”

Rumlow stands up, cracking his back and neck. “So, I guess you’ll contact me? Or I’ll contact you if I get the Soldier under control again.”

She stares at him.

“They warned me about you,” she half mutters to herself. Rumlow tilts his head, offering her his best smile.

“ _Good._ ”

\-- --- --

“I don’t- I’m not really comfortable with this-” Sophie starts to protests, wringing her hands. Her hazel eyes dart over Bucky’s room, and Steve almost suspects her of fleeing.

“We really need your help- Bucky really needs your help,” Steve insists. “He trusts you.”

She doesn’t look convinced. “Don’t you have other people you could-”

“Sophie, _I_ trust you around Bucky.”

Sophie looks up at him, baffled.

“Please? I need someone I can trust who can also understand Bucky’s medical records. I don’t know what to do; he knows you, Sophie. I could really use your help.” Steve pleads, letting his desperate bleed through into his voice.

Shaking her head, she backs up a step. “No, I can’t- I’m only qualified because I worked for Hydra!”

Oh, that’s what this is about. Steve feels guilty for pushing.

“Yes,” Steve admits, gentle. “But you were forced to. I’m not trying to make you to do anything, but I want you to know your presence would be very beneficial.”

Sophie wipes at her eyes with her hands. “You really trust me?”

“I do.”

She looks over to Bucky in drug-induced unconsciousness. Steve can pinpoint the moment when her resolve begins to crumble.

“I’d be helping him, right?” Sophie’s question rips a hole through Steve’s chest. She may not have been tortured like Bucky was, but she was equally trapped in on all sides by the same awful Hydra members Bucky was.

He nods. “Very much.”

Sophie takes a couple ragged breaths, composing herself.

“I smeared my eyeliner,” she sniffs with a small laugh.

Surprised, Steve smiles. Maybe this could work.

\-- --- --

Someone’s holding onto him. He’s trying to scratch at the IV in his arm, but a hand grabs his wrist and pulls it away before he can get any purchase. He’s… warm?

“Hey, it’s alright.”

The Soldier bristles at the tone. Faux concern and sugar sweet poison. If there weren't for these fucking drugs in his veins he’d rip them all to shreds. He tries to focus, but his vision smears the room into light, shapes, and shadows he can’t follow. He is far away from controlling his body. All the Soldier has to do is snap and he’s free, they can’t- but he doesn’t have the strength to get out.

Hands on his shoulders, easing him down. Lying down. **_No_ ** \- He snaps at the arm near his bared teeth. A yelp of surprise, but not pain. He couldn’t connect; there is no blood in his mouth. Twisting up to try and break the hold, he stiffens when pain flashes down his leg, sharp and deep.

“Careful, you’re leg’s broken.” The man speaking is broad, taking up most of his blurred vision. He snarls in reply as his leg is jostled. A large hand presses on his chest until he’s lying down again.

What did he do? He’s trying to recall what happened…

He can taste them putting more drugs into the IV. The desire to fight and get away fades with the whispering through his veins. Winding, twisting, insidious calm creeping up through him until he's light-headed and weak, weaker…

Hands stroking his hair, his arm.

No, _please_ -

\-- --- --

“James, wake up.”

That one’s new. He struggles to open his eyes, exhausted.

“It’s Sophie, James. You’re trying to wake up, remember?”

…Sophie? He tries to speak, thoughts muddled and slow. He can’t quite remember… all he can think of is a soft voice and soft hands. That can’t be right…?

“I need to talk to you, just for a little bit. Can you do that?” Sophie asks, her voice pleasant. He’s trying not to fall asleep but it’s so hard- what did they give him? It takes all of his focus to turn his head to look down at his right arm. There.

A hand rests over the needle in his arm, covering it up. He drags his gaze upwards, until he’s looking at an overweight woman of Asian descent. It clicks when she smiles.

“...sophie...” He gets out, trying to get his tongue to work. His eyes keep sliding closed, and it becomes harder and harder to open them.

“Yes, that’s me.” Her cheerfulness means something’s wrong. Looking around the room for the problem is too much for him to do. A cold trickle of dread slides down his throat. What’s going on?

“I need you to tell me if you’ve taken anything I’m about to show you in the past month. Can you do that?” Sophie massages his hand to bring his attention back. He manages to nod at her. He’s not sure how long a month is supposed to feel like, but he’ll try to remember.

Is he James?

“This is diazepam- James, focus please. This is very important.” He jerks himself awake as much as he can, looking over the bottle and the pills in her hand.

Yes, those are familiar. He nods, tilting his head back against the pillow. He’s just so tired-

“What about this one? It’s called ketamine; it comes in a vial.”

He blinks a couple of times to try and get his eyes to focus on the blurry plastic in front of his face. He can’t-

“Don’t know,” he mumbles. “I don’t…”

“It makes you feel like you’re not connected to your body; you can’t move.”

That’s not right. He shakes his head as much as he can. Feeling like that is means something terrible is happening.

He’s drifting in and out of the conversation, know that he should be listening but it’s too hard- why do they need to bother him about this? They know what he takes; they give it to him. What does he have to do to sleep?

“James, last one. Have you taken heroin in the last month?”

It’s not bringing up any memories, and he shakes his head. Sophie lifts his chin up so he can see.

“Focus really hard, okay? I promise you can sleep after this.” She holds up another vial. It looks the same as the others. Maybe he’s answering this wrong and they’re waiting to trick him.

“... can’t remember.” He admits.

“It comes in a vial, and you inject it into your veins. Heroin is quick acting, within a minute you feel a rush of warmth and euphoria. I need to know if you’ve taken it.”

He shakes his head, helpless. “...don’t know…”

“They would have given it to you to make you feel better. You wouldn’t be able to move very much, but your body would be warm and you’d feel really good. It lasts a long time. Did you take any?”

He doesn’t remember feeling anything good. “No…?”

She sighs. “Okay, thank you.”

He hears her leave, feeling like he’s done something wrong. Before he can figure out what it is, exhaustion drags him under again.

\-- --- --

It's cruel to keep him on the edge, not quite able to rouse the Soldier to deal with the situation. He can handle the pain, meet sneers with snarls, make an invitation a challenge. But not like this; he can't do it.

Just out of reach. Like leaving food where he can't get it, beyond the length of the chain. Water spilled on the ground before him, soaking into his pants and even if he was allowed to lick it off the floor he was told not to take the mask off-

They install something else in his veins, another port or delivery system. He can't keep track of what they're giving him, only that he's being kept helpless on purpose.

\-- --- --

The Soldier roars.

The sound cannot travel far enough to reach anyone who cares.

\-- --- --

No matter what they try to do, Bucky keeps wasting away.

Originally a slow and steady decline over the trial, Bucky’s weight has dropped at an alarming rate during the past month and a half he spent hunting down Hydra bases and avoiding Steve. The doctors installed a PIC line to slow the weight loss even a little, but Bucky’s caloric needs are astronomical even during rest.

It is a landslide into negative gain.

His broken leg should have healed; the cut skin across his hand should have stitched together by now. Bruises darken and spread when they should be fading. Bucky's skin is losing its color. His right hand and both his feet are cold and tinged blue from improper blood circulation.

Bucky’s own body is eating away at itself in a vicious cycle of trying to find enough energy to heal and recover from the self-inflicted damage. It's like cutting wood from a tree, using that wood to keep the tree from collapsing, then not having the foresight to move out of the way during the fall.

Steve’s trying to help, but just when he thinks he finds a solid surface, it’s all wood rot.

\-- --- --

“ _He's getting worse!”_

Steve does not say that Bucky is dying, but it's there, seeping into the room like a contaminant.

Death is the end of everyone, but Bucky never seems to shake off fate trying to strangle him. Steve fought off an early grave more times than he's said his own name, stubbornness carrying him through when his physical strength failed.

Steve is selfish, and hopes to a god he no longer believes in that Bucky will make it through. He fears he's let the situation fester like a bad wound, unwilling to sacrifice some before he's forced to lose everything.

“Do what you have to do.”

Is it cruelty to keep fighting when Bucky has made clear that he lacks the capacity to care? Bucky has continued to die ever since he fell from the train.

It's not death; it's decay.

\-- --- --

_I’ve found that strife won’t make the bleeding stop,_

_Nor will it take away the pain,_

_I feel like this search is all in vain,_

_And I struggle to find my way.”_

_"Strife by Trivium; Vengence Falls_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back, y'all!
> 
> Wow, look at all that plot! This chapter turned into 18kt, so I decided to split it into two. I plan to get the following chapter up by next Monday, so read fast!  
> I love you all. Thanks for sticking around for this late update. You are all troopers for being so patient with me.
> 
> Would people be interested if I did a “behind the scenes” parallel to the story where I talk about my inspirations, notes for plot points and characters, thought ideas, and research I’ve gathered? 
> 
> And what the fuck is up with Rumlow, am I right? More scenes with him next time >:3  
> Bucky doesn't have many scenes from his POV, but next chapter they'll be there and it won't be fun :/ 
> 
> (I promise, promise that Bucky is starting to get help, it just takes a while for his brain/body to catch up to being safe).
> 
> Any constructive criticisms over this chapter- or any other- is always welcome! This is un-beta'd. Comments really do make me happy :)
> 
> Added: This fic is a year old ?!?!?! Oh my goodness... wow, I'm a slow writer XD


	8. "I Don't Want To Be Here Anymore" by Rise Against

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (This chapter and last chapter were going to be one chapter, so it's mostly a continuation of the story). 
> 
> Bucky starts having bad flashbacks with a clear separation in identities/alters representing Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID). Steve sees a therapist with insistent prodding from Sam. Pepper Potts is, as always, a force not to be reckoned with. Again, Rumlow does his own thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: severe dissociation/dehumanization (Bucky and others refer to Bucky as ‘it’), graphic flashbacks of non-con/rape (nothing is described explicitly for the non-con, but the spoken words and implications are no longer subtle), , clear separation of Bucky’s sense of self into different identities (Dissociative Identity Disorder: one alter verbally abuses the other), mentions of drug abuse, mentions of self harm, self-victimization and blaming (Bucky).

_ “On pins and needles we are waiting for the fall, _

_ We count the days scratching lines on the wall, _

_ Wait in the wings at someone’s beck and call… _

 

_ No longer recognize the place that I call home, _

_ No longer recognize this face as my own, _

_ Somewhere, this fate, I lost control! _

\-- --- --

 

**International Crime Court dismisses TWS case, saying Barnes has “already suffered enough” and that he is “pardoned for his crimes of terror and humanity” read more at BBC**

‘ _ Madcapnip _ ’ says: Oh, thank God! I was getting worried that they were going to force him through a trial again.

> ^‘ _ Twoxfour _ ’ replies: “‘Sgt. James Buchanan Barnes will not be tried for his crimes,’ an unnamed spokesperson explained. ‘Anyone who sees the evidence will have to conclude that Sgt. Barnes was forced into a situation he could not escape and was forced to commit the crimes he was charged with.’” I agree 150%! If people still think that Bucky is the one to blame, they should go through the pages and pages of evidence the ICC posted last night. It’s horrific. Compared to Barnes vs. The People, the US trial was heavily censored.

’ _ thefigurehead32’ _ says: How devastated those families of TSW's victims must be!!! He’s dodged proper and due punishment for a second time now. How can he not answer to the amount of suffering he’s caused?!?! Heartless monster free to walk! I’m sickened.

> ^’piggypigs’ replies: my best friend lost her children to him and she can’t go a day without breaking down and crying. This news is going to kill her
> 
> ^^’sukahume’ replies: I’m so sorry to hear that. It must be awful to lose your children. But can’t you see that it wasn’t Barnes’ fault? He was tortured and brainwashed for years to make him kill people. If you’re looking for someone to crucify him, look to his handler, look to the Hydra scientists that make him into the Winter Soldier. If he had the choice, he wouldn’t have killed your friend’s children. 

_ 329 more replies (hidden) _

 

\-- --- --

This pain-

_ Ahh, please stop _ -

Pulsing through him, digging through deep muscle and bone. It's constricting around his chest, tight around his throat. His head pounds with each heartbeat. 

He's digging his nails into his side along his ribs to try and focus on something manageable. Anything else-  _ oh god, it hurts so much- _

“He's hurting himself!”

He can't stop the whines he's making. It hurts so bad, like they're crushing his bones- please,  _ please! _

Hands on him, again. He doesn’t want them touching him;  _ they'll just make it worse, please _ -

“James, what's wrong?” 

He starts to laugh. 

First, quietly between gasps of pain, but then he can't control it, like it's blood and he's bleeding out. Spilling out behind his teeth and into the room, where he can feel everyone freeze. 

Something about the pain and delirium sets off the switch he needs; the Soldier stirs, fighting through agony. One task at a time.

No structural damage: proceed.

Functioning compromised: remove IV. 

Done. Kicks at the person scrambling after him. They dart away, out of reach.  **Threat!**

The Soldier meets the guards on his feet. He- 

Blow to the knee. He crumples in inexplicable pain disproportionate to the hit. Rough handling of him to the floor, a hand on the back of his head to push him facedown onto tile.

No,  _ no! _

The Soldier screams in rage, control slicing through his hands like shattered glass. Struggling brings attention to his arm twisted behind his back. He could get out of the hold at the cost of dislocation or breakage. 

Acceptable collateral. 

“Someone get the sedative before he breaks something!”

The person pinning him down eases up on the Soldier’s right arm, shifting their weight onto the tender mess of his left shoulder, unforgiving. Another guard, pressure on his left leg- the damaged one. 

The Soldier shudders, then submits. Easily, like he should. The syringe jabbed into his leg takes the pain as his vision fades.

If he could talk, he'd properly thank them for being so generous. He knows he doesn’t deserve this. 

\-- --- --

As awful as it is to say, Steve’s glad that Becca’s been feeling under the weather so she can’t visit her brother. It’s harder to convince Dugan and Gabe to stay away, but he manages.

Steve is all too aware of the ever-persistent, hidden timer that counts down his friends’ lives. He understands their desperation, but to allow them to see Bucky in such a horrible state would do more harm than good.

For everyone.

\-- --- --

[image caption:

A picture of Sgt. James Buchanan Barnes’ public grave in Arlington Cemetery, decorated with flowers and cards. A group of teenagers kneel around it, scrubbing off the red paint that spelled ‘MURDERER’. More teenagers stand around, protecting the grave.]

Sam freezes, staring at the news article with his mug halfway to his mouth.

Fuck.

He sends a text Steve’s way, knowing that his boyfriend will probably deny that it would have affected him. If Sam felt comfortable asking for vacation time, he’d be up in New York by tonight. But dropping veterans like that never goes over well, and he’s concerned about his newest client. As a peer specialist, he has to be the one to be consistent, a solid foundation of support.

He can’t be on call if he’s in Avenger’s tower. 

Steve has been distant to the point of concern. He’s distracted and too-wrapped up in Bucky’s situation. Sam knows he can’t help, so he sent a very delicately worded email to Pepper Potts- isn’t that crazy? He can  _ email _ one of the most successful and powerful women in the world- about trying to get Steve some professional help.

Thanking his parents for almost limitless patience, Sam switches over to YouTube for some silly animal videos. He’s trying to find something safe and cheerful for Drew to watch in an attempt to try and pull the young man out of his spiral of depression.

Sam was too aware of Drew’s absence at the last support group. Tyler attempted to bond with him a few times earlier, but Drew was having none of it, hostile and defensive to the friendly vietnam veteran. Thankfully, Tyler is not the type of guy to take it as a personal attack.

He’s meeting Drew at a nearby coffee shop for breakfast tomorrow morning. The young vet has already backed out of a few public meetings, but Sam has a good feeling about this one. Chances are Drew scoped out the place earlier, and hopefully found the place nonthreatening.

They have really good steamed milk. Sam’s going to try to feed Drew a lot of food. Approach is everything; playing the concerned older brother type would probably get the best response, considering how young and lost Drew appears. 

\-- --- --

It’s Bucky’s birthday. Somehow this hurts more than previous ones.

Steve learns that many people sent Bucky gifts following Darcy’s instructions on how to do so. Most of the presents are letters and pictures. Some art pieces, quite a few stuffed animals, books, and knitted things like scarves. A comprehensive list of someone’s favorite music. Favorite places to shop and eat.

He’s blown away. Darcy only talks to him for a little while, unusually subdued and quiet. Maybe she can see how worn out he is, how delicate the situation is.

Steve says thank you, and carefully sorts and stores the gifts so Bucky can look at them later. He knows that most people on the internet are very sweet; last year he received presents of his own, but not at this magnitude.

It helps lift his mood to know so many people care about Bucky.

\-- --- --

If they'd only let it stay awake for longer than a few minutes. What do they want? What do they want? What do you want-  _ please _ , anything!- _ I just want this to stop; I hate it, please _ -

This one always begs. Causes shame for the Soldier. The main source of pain for him-

_ All they have to do is ask.  _

_ They ask and it does, shaking with a mix of disbelief and eagerness. This is one of the good times, where she is playful and content. Praise and food and enough soft touches that it can't stop. _

_ “Baby, you're being so good for me.” Her voice, comforting. Her golden hair catches the light, and her eyes sparkle with mirth. It is on a bed, reveling in the attention it hardly receives.  _

_ Her hand slides along his abdomen- (What's going on?) _

_ She smiles and kisses it.  _

_ A desperate need flashes through it, electrifying and sudden.  _

_ Maybe it wants this too much. The woman pulls back, smiling when it- (Don't you dare!)- as it can without jostling her, seeking more of- (Stop right now!) _

_ “Oh, baby. Look at you.” The woman purrs, both hands threading through its hair. “You're so needy; I love it!” _

_ It doesn't mean to react, but it can't stop relishing in the- _

_ (This isn't what you think it is!). _

_ It feels her quiet laughter between kisses that drift from its mouth to its neck and lower until it tenses underneath her, trying to bite back the sounds that keep escaping, unbidden- _

_ “Good boy, gorgeous.” _

_ It can't help but shift in confusion at the praise. It's doing this… right? How dare it hope that she-  _

_ ( _ **_Listen_ ** _ to me!) _

_ “That's right, baby. You're doing perfectly.” _

_ Her cool fingertips wipe the hot tears spilling over its cheeks. She's so kind and careful with it, unlike most. It… feels so good... _

_ She feeds it a few pieces of chocolate after it takes the pills she offered, savoring the heavy, sweet taste to chase away the sharp, bitter taste of-  _

_(_ ** _Bite_** **_her!_** _)_

_ She didn't say what the pills were- _

_ “That's it, honey.” _

_ It feels like it is falling. She's taking off-  _

_ ( _ **_No_ ** _ …  _ **_don't take that_ ** _... She's-) _

_ “Relax, I'll take care of you.” _

_ It is too much of an effort to resist, heavy and weightless in the same space, drifting- The deep blue walls swim away, and the cream colored ceiling blurs with the lights… _

_ ( _ **_No_ ** _ , don't let her.... she's drugging the body-) _

_ “You're so good for me.” _

_ More chocolate. The praise fills its chest with a warm glow. Or is that the pills…?  _

_ Contact on the inside of its thigh causes a full body flinch.  _

_ “So sensitive…”  _

_ (Don't comply-  _ **_don't_ ** _ …!) _

_ It flushes in shame, wanting to twist away and sink into her touch, frustrated and confused enough to let another sound slip out. _

_ “You poor thing, needing me like this. Don't be embarrassed, baby.” She soothes with a grin when it averts its gaze down on the cream sheets.  _

_ “No one takes care of you like I do.” _

_ It feels her heartbeat racing under her skin- no, that's its own… it pants, out of breath and lightheaded. _

_ ( _ **_Fuck! Let me handle it you useless piece of shit!_ ** _ ) _

_ “Aww, poor thing. Already overwhelmed?” _

_ Her laughter isn't mocking, but honest and open. She's genuinely delighted in its reactions. (Just give the body to me  _ **_before it's too late!_ ** _ ) _

_ -melting into the patterns she traces onto skin. Trails her fingernails over its chest, flanks, and thighs until it gasps and whines.   _

_ “Alright, alright. I understand. Since you asked so beautifully…” _

_ It chokes on a moan when she touches him, squirms back on impulse- _

_ No one- it isn't  _ **_allowed_ ** _ \- weakness of the flesh- No no stop, please- _

_ She follows it, weight settling between its legs, a hand stroking along the curve the iliac crest- _

_ ( _ **_ARRRGHH! STOP RIGHT FUCKING NOW. GET OUT!_ ** _ ) _

_ “Shh, honey. I know it's a lot, but you're doing so well.” She soothes, leaning over it to kiss it, firm. It draws in a trembling breath when she stops touching it and pets its hair.  _

_ “You've earned all this attention, gorgeous. All of this perfect attention when no one's hurting you.” She kisses it between words, encouraging. “I want to feel good, too, and I can't do that if you keep fighting me.” _

_ (You understand that she's doing this for herself? Please her and you might be okay....) _

_ It whimpers, a faint apology at the back of its throat. More tears spill over. It's been so long between moments when people are kind, its body reacts violently, like sodium and water, but it aches for more. _

_ “Thank you, dear. I realize you didn't know, and so I forgive you. It's so much to handle, but you can do it. I'm here to make it feel so, so good for you...” _

_ She climbs onto of it, distracting it with longer, more passionate kisses. It moans when she- _

_ (NO, DON’T-  _ **_STOP THIS_ ** _ , PLEASE!) _

_ “There you go, gorgeous!” _

_ It should be ashamed, but it fades with her constant praises. She acts like it isn't dirty, isn't revolting or worthless to spend such care on- _

_ It soaks her up, her laughter and encouragement as if it didn't have expectations of what any other moment would be like. She actually pays attention when even the faintest flicker of discomfort passes over its face and she readjusts.  _

_ She leaves a trail of teeth marks and lipstick down its body, praising it every time she leaves a new bruise or smear. It shudders, unable to focus after a few more pills eaten out of her hand.  _

_ Its heartbeat is loud and rapid in its ear-  _

_(_ ** _No no no_** **_don't be fucking stupid_** _. She's not doing this for you-)_

_ Burn of nails across skin. Her breath heavy between her gasps. Its cringes when she continues to turn its body against itself- _

_ “I'm not done with you until you've fallen apart. It would be a shame to waste such beauty and obedience...” _

_ Too much, and it can't help the cry that escapes when she keeps- _

**_(I TOLD YOU!_ ** _ LET ME-) _

_ Not good anymore. Reveling in the passing of time turns into loathing the dragging minutes. _

_ “Here, darling. Open that pretty mouth of yours.” _

_ (NO,  _ **_DON’T TAKE THE FUCKING PILLS!_ ** _ THE BODY WILL BE VULNERABLE-) _

_ It wants to know what she keeps giving it, now confident the pills are causing the twisted rush of bliss that settles low in its stomach. It opens its mouth with reluctance, shaking.  _

_ It can't decide what it wants anymore- _

_ It is sick, dizzy, and confused- _

_ (No panicking- makes it worse…) _

_ She's messier with her affection, her hands are close to unbearable. It's harder to stay good.  Kiss back when kissed. Don't move away when touched. Try to stop reacting- _

_ “Ready for something new, honey? You'll need to relax-” _

_ ( _ **_I can't help_ ** _ … the pills-) _

_ A muffled sob buries into the mattress. On its stomach. Her too-much hands caressing aching, overworked muscles in its legs, back, thighs- _

_ At least it can't see the mirror above the bed face down like this. Her on top, flawless as she drags out any sense of composure it once had- _

Please,  _ please- _

_ ( _ **_Relax_ ** _. Shhh, relax... ) _

_ Here it is lost, tears prickling its eyes with lack of direction. It has to move with her- it shouldn't  _ **_enjoy_ ** _ this, how greedy it is to react this way-  _

_ Oh, please please please stop no more please I need this please more- _

_ She's laughing. It whimpers, beyond capacity to beg. Hands slide down its thighs, gently nudging it back into position- _

_ (Let her… let her-) _

_ It can't keep track of time anymore- _

_ She pushes it over the edge, past the ability to do anything at all besides to lie here and take it- _

_ The pillow is wet against its cheek.  _

_ “All done, gorgeous.” _

_ It feels muscles twitching from overuse. She kisses along its spine, precise and gentle in such a way that raises goosebumps along its skin. _

_ (Don't cry! Weakness is  _ **_not_ ** _ acceptable-) _

_ “So perfect, honey. You were so good for me, thank you.” Her praises, whispered into bruised and flushed skin, draw out a shiver.  _

_ She cleans it with a damp, soft towel, chuckling when it shifts away. Another kiss when she's done, one it doesn’t try to lean in to. _

_ “I'll see you again, gorgeous. Hopefully soon.” _

_ It is still crying, silent, when she leaves, tears soaking into the pillowcase. _

_ ( _ **_Fuck_ ** _.  _ **_Look at what you’ve fucking done. Disgusting AND useless. Should have let me dealt with her_ ** _ \- You know you can’t handle this well- Just… settle down. She’s done and the body needs to recover. _

_ Sixty seconds, then you forget about it. Understand? _

_ You’re fine.) _

\-- --- --

Wild, frantic, and weak, Bucky latches onto Steve’s arm. Pale-ice eyes glassy with tears, Bucky hides his face in Steve’s chest, seeking out comfort when he would otherwise push everyone away.

Stunned, Steve places a hand on Bucky’s back. He flinches, and it tears Steve’s composure into ragged shreds. Steve’s own breath catches in his throat. Bucky trembles from the aftershocks of his latest flashback, gasping for air like he’s just fought for his life. Which- Steve thinks, horrified- might have been exactly what happened.

Steve cannot wrap his head around the idea of doing anything and everything in order to survive, but no matter what, nothing worked. Never giving up is one thing; Steve’s always pushed back, challenged boundaries because he knew that some day he’d make it. But to learn that giving in and giving up ended in the same result as fighting back… no wonder Bucky’s sense of independence was destroyed.

For the first time in weeks Bucky does not make it difficult to sedate him. Bucky sighs in what Steve hopes is relief, and lets Steve guide him to lay down again. Bucky’s grip loosens, and soon enough his hand falls to the bed, limp. Steve brushes back Bucky’s hair from where it sticks to his forehead. It is long and greasy to touch, tangled from neglect. Soon enough someone will convince Bucky to get into the shower to clean up.

Steve knows that the medication is messing with Bucky’s ability to take care of himself, but the doctors can’t take him off cold turkey. Reducing the dosage is the safest way. However, the process is set back every time Bucky is sedated. 

Slow improvement is better than nothing.

\-- --- --

> Hello, everyone! It’s @ _ TheREALDarcy _ here. 
> 
> I got explicit permission from Steve Rogers to say the few things I am about to say:
> 
>   * I picked up all the lovely birthday gifts and well wishes for Bucky.
>   * He has **not** looked at them yet.
>   * Steve says thank you from the bottom of his heart, everything looks wonderful.
>   * He will show them to Bucky when Bucky is feeling better.
>   * Steve is staying with Bucky in Avenger’s tower so please don’t try to stalk Steve’s residence.
> 

> 
> That is all. Thank you, everyone <3 I’m sure that Bucky will love them.
> 
> >| He still hasn’t looked at them? How sick is he?!?!
> 
> >>| Hey guys let’s just cry over the fact that this is Bucky’s first birthday free since 1945
> 
> _ 415,123 notes _

\-- --- --

_ We backed down, _

_ We took ‘no’ for answers far too long, _

_ We felt those walls close around! _

 

_ I don’t want to be here anymore... _

_ I don’t want to be here anymore... _

\-- --- --

Steve jolts awake in a panic when Bucky screams. He scrambles to get up from the couch, legs tangled in the blankets. The lights flick on. Someone runs down the hall. A machine shrieks, adding to the confusion.

Bucky sits upright in bed, staring straight ahead with wide, unfocused eyes. Steve reaches Bucky’s side as the on-call nurse appears in the doorway.

“What the hell is going on?!” Steve demands, jumping to readjust the IV tubing so it doesn't wrap around Bucky’s wrist and rip out. His skin is cold and tacky with old sweat. Bucky hasn't screamed again, but he's weakly trying to push Steve's hands away, eyes glassy. 

The nurse, Tess, gathers the slack of the line and checks the drip rate. A press of a button silences the alarm. 

“It looks like a night terror. JARVIS, call Dr. Robert, let him know.” Tess says, picking up the oximeter from where it clattered of the floor.

“A night terror?” Steve repeats. He has to reach out to guide Bucky’s silver hand away from the IV.

Trish nods, her dyed blonde curls bouncing. “Like a waking nightmare. He looks like he's awake, but he's not.”

JARVIS interrupts with, “Dr. Robert is on his way. He advises not to try to wake Sgt. Barnes up until he arrives.”

“Stop messing with that; you're safe. It's making you feel better.” Steve says, gentle as he pulls Bucky's hand away again. Bucky doesn’t even look at him. 

Steve's heart rate starts the slow descent down to normal, the adrenaline build up in his veins unnecessary now he knows Bucky isn't in danger. In contrast, Bucky's heart rate flashes on the display, hovering around a stressed out one hundred twenty-seven.

Steve loses count of how many times he has to prevent Bucky from ripping out the IV in the time it takes the doctor to walk in. At least Bucky isn't very responsive, and hasn't done much more than try to push Steve away from him. Sounds slip out of Bucky occasionally, quiet and terrible with Bucky's clear attempt to stay silent even with fear in his eyes. 

Dr. Robert arrives, looking appropriately disheveled for the early hours of the morning. His red hair reminds Steve a little of Dugan, but the similarities end there. Dr. Robert is a soft-spoken, thin man with absolutely nothing threatening about his appearance. It's probably why Maria recommended him as Bucky's neurologist.

“Good…morning, is it?” the doctor checks his watch, muffling a yawn. He places his laptop on the sink counter and disinfects his hands. Bucky stiffens at the sharp smell of alcohol based cleaner. Now that everything is under control, Trish excuses herself from the room. 

Steve hovers nearby, wary that Bucky is going to lash out. It wouldn’t be the first time. Dr. Roberts stays out of reach at the foot of the hospital bed, both for his sake and Bucky’s.

“James, my name’s Dr. Robert. I’m you’re neurologist.” He says, gentle but firm. He waits a pause, but Bucky refuses to acknowledges him.

“I would like to examine you to confirm that you’re having a night terror.”

Bucky’s leg twitches, and a low growl rumbles out of his chest. Dr. Robert stands still, observing. When he moves to the side of the bed, Bucky’s gaze does not follow him. Steve’s not sure what that means, but the doctor looks intrigued.

“Captain Rogers, if you would.” He gestures to Bucky as he approaches, and Steve positions himself to intervene if necessary.

“James, can I touch your wrist?” Dr. Robert asks as a formal warning, not expecting a response. Bucky’s breath hitches, but otherwise he does not react when Dr. Robert takes his pulse. Pulling out a pen light, the doctor again informs Bucky that he wishes to check his eyes.

A sudden whine and Bucky jerks his head free from the light touch on his chin. Steve leaps forward, but he’s not needed.

“Okay, I’m sorry.” Dr. Robert replaces the light, placating. He turns his attention to Steve. “I am pretty confident that he’s still dreaming, so it would be best not to wake him. Patients tend to be very violent as they wake up suddenly; with James, the nature of his dreams would exacerbate the potential for violence.”

“What exactly is a night terror?” Steve doesn’t understand.

“It’s most similar to a nightmare in reality, but during a nightmare, once the person is awake it ends. With a night  _ terror _ -also called a sleep terror- the person is still asleep, even if they appear awake.” Dr. Robert explains as he types something up on his laptop. “Night terrors are not fully understood why they occur, but the best way to think of it as a sort of sleepwalking, but with high levels of fear and dread.”

“Is it treatable?”

Bucky curls up on his side, his back to them. Steve checks to make sure he hasn’t pulled anything out; he hasn’t. 

Dr. Robert peers at something on his screen, the light from the laptop casting shadows on him that make him appear even more exhausted.

“In the general population, treatment is not necessary. Unfortunately, James is not an ordinary patient.” Dr. Robert says with a grim smile. “Treatment usually includes benzodiazepines among other things… but he’s already taking diazepam.” The doctor’s brow furrows in confusion.

“We’re in the process of lowering his dose,” Steve discloses, uneasy.

“I know. He’s still on a very reasonable amount that should be taking care of night terrors, but… it’s not.” He taps at the keyboard for a few more minutes in contemplative silence. Bucky twitches in his sleep, a soft warning growl in his throat.

“I think the worst of it has passed. I’ll send you information on night terrors sometime in the morning.” The doctor pauses, frowning. “Well, I guess it is morning already. So I’ll send it at a more reasonable hour. Don’t wake him unless he’s hurting himself or someone else, but keep track of the night terrors. I’ll order a few different brain scans and see what I can find.”

Steve nods, rubbing his eyes. His last full night of sleep feels like it was ages ago. “Send it to Sophie; she’ll help me understand it all. Thanks.”

Dr. Robert nods. “I wish I had more answers for you.”

Steve shrugs, waving him off. “It’s fine.”

\-- --- --

_ “On your knees, Soldier.”  _

_ The Soldier does not growl in annoyance, but it’s a close thing. The pleasant, casual tone of the agent’s voice riles him up. The mask fails to hide the rough exhale he makes when his knees hit the hardwood floor. Injuries hurt more post-mission now that the Soldier doesn’t have a focus for his attention. The other man in the room looks up from his book, surprised enough to take his feet off of the table.  _

_ “What the hell are you doing, Warren?” He’s not angry, even though the language suggests otherwise. So far, he isn’t interested enough to close his book. _

_ The Soldier drops his gaze to the floor for a moment, knowing he won’t be able to hide a flash of frustration if this becomes more than an isolated event. The Soldier is worn out and tired. He doesn’t want to deal with this shit until he’s recovered more from the demands of the mission- a successful mission, might he add.  _

_ Warren takes a half-step to the other man, turning to give him a smirk, his round and boyish features softening the expression into playfulness. “Come on, don’t tell me you’ve never done this with him.” _

_ The blank look on the other man’s face tells the Soldier otherwise. He glances over to the Soldier for confirmation, but he gets an empty stare in return. It’s not like the Soldier remembers all of them. Light skin, dark hair, a long face with a prominent forehead, and an old scar that runs from his lower lip to the right side of his jaw. Nothing memorable about the agent, not when he’s wearing typical special ops gear.  _

_ “You’re shitting me, Rollins. Never?” Warren asks in disbelief, gaping at the other man- Rollins. _

_ “‘Never’ what?” Rollins looks genuinely confused, and isn’t that something new. _

_ “Jesus, Rollins. Are you a virgin? How many times have you been on a mission with him?” Warrens sounds concerned, incredulous. He throws a hand out to gesture at the Soldier kneeling obediently on the dusty floor. “You’ve never had the Soldier suck your dick before?” _

_ Rollins frowns, and the Soldier catches disgust in his tone. “The fuck?! Of course not.” _

_ The Soldier watches the two of them, careful not to stare. He rolls his shoulder to ease the ache, grateful for this discussion keeping Warren focused on Rollins and not the Soldier. Of the two, Rollins seems the easiest to read, which the Soldier appreciates in a way. _

_ It’s Warren’s turn to frown. “Why not? Did nobody tell you?” _

_ He doesn’t seem to understand that Rollin’s interest is nonexistent in this scenario. Rollins looks down past Warren to the Soldier again. He meets the new agent’s gaze for a brief second before focusing on a spot on the floor near Rollin’s combat boots. A clear sign of complacency. If it’s going to happen, he’d rather Rollins feel in control and unthreatened.  _

_ “No one told me anything, Warren. Hell, he just was out busting his ass during the mission. I don’t think he’s in the mood for your shit.” Rollins says, challenging Warren- and by extension, the Soldier, too.  _

_ The Soldier wants to snarl at him for trying to make it sound like he’s not able to take it. He settles for a glare instead, and Rollin’s eyes widen when he catches the Soldier’s gaze. Warren turns back to face the Soldier, a conspiratorial smile showing his teeth.The Soldier sees the blow coming, and it takes all of his force of will not to duck.  _

_ Rollins’ sharp intake of breath proves pretty well that he has not worked with the Soldier. _

_ “What the fuck, Warren?!” _

_ The Soldier readjusts himself to be back in proper form, unfazed. The hit wasn’t full force, most likely due to the mask’s chances of scraping up Warren’s hand. Rollins, amusingly, has taken a threatening step towards the other agent, torn between bewilderment and outrage.  _

_ “He’s fine, Rollins.” Warren says to ease Rollins’ concern, but elaborates when Rollins still doesn’t seem to get it. “I guess you weren’t told that the Soldier is completely obedient, were you?” _

_ Rollins seems at a lost for words for a moment. _

_ “I- I know he’s good at what he does,” he says, unsure. “And he only listens to handlers.” _

_ “Not just handlers. Isn't that right, Soldier?” _

_ “Yes, sir.” The Soldier says, voice muffled from the mask. He does not clarify that orders from handlers carry the most weight, especially within a mission or objective setting. _

_ “Wait, wait. Are you telling me that if you order him to do something, he'll do it?” Rollins asks slowly, but with a hint of understanding. _

_ Warren looks at the Soldier. “Answer him,” he says with a nod to Rollins. _

_ “Yes, sir.” The Soldier agrees, switching his attention off of Warren.  _

_ “... even a blowjob?” Rollins presses. And while Warren looks smug, the new agent appears reluctant.  _

_ “Yes, sir.” He repeats. _

_ Rollins eyes narrow. “Do you want to give Agent Warren a blowjob?” _

_ Stunned, the Soldier blinks. What- does he- How does he answer? _

_ “I don't understand, sir.” He admits after a tense moment of confusion, immediately on edge. _

_ Warren laughs, and the sound startles Rollins and the Soldier equally. _

_ “He doesn't have to want it; he does what I tell him. You're going to confuse him.” Warren says like he has diffused the situation successfully, but the closed-off stance Rollins has settled into says otherwise. _

_ “I think I'll pass.” Rollins’ voice is tight.  _

_ Warren shrugs. “Suit yourself.”  _

_ Rollins gathers his things and leaves, shutting the door behind him with a little too much force. The Soldier does not admit to the rush of relief through him.  _

_ “Take off your mask.” Warren orders, focused back on the Soldier. _

_ The Soldier obeys.  _

_ “Drop it.” _

_ He does, letting it clatter at his knees. He wants to sigh as the man slowly undoes his belt and zipper, clearly taking his time.  _

_ “You know what to do,” the man says almost in a whisper, voice low. Warren treats this like something coveted, special. The Soldier humors him since it's better than getting knocked around, however monotonous the task- _

_ The door slams open and in walks the Soldier's handler. Warren swears and pushes the Soldier back so he sits on his heels.  _

_ “Fuck, Rumlow! Don't catch a man with his pants down; it's basic manners to knock first.” Warren is already over a brief moment of embarrassment, and back to an arrogant, lopsided smile.  _

_ Meanwhile, the Soldier remains where he kneels, tense and still. His handler is pissed, very much so. Rumlow’s piercing stare bores a hole through Warren.  _

_ “It's  _ Commander _ to you,” the man snaps. “If I catch you with your dick out again I'll shoot it off.” _

_ The smile falls off Warren’s face.  _

_ “What?! You can't- I'm not causing problems-” the agent splutters, face darkening in anger. “He's not even freaked out- you know he's no better than a robot, right?” _

_ “Don't do this again,” growls Rumlow. “I'll not have you use the Soldier as a goddamn prostitute.”  _

_ The field handler rounds on the Soldier. He expects his handler to strike him. _

_ “You. Main room, now. Your weapons are not properly cleaned.”  _

_ The Soldier limps to his feet, muscles locked up from staying still for so long. Warren grumbles under his breath, but recognizes this is an argument he won't win. Rumlow watches the Soldier approach, looking him over for… something.  _

_ He follows Rumlow out to the main room, trying to understand what is going on. Rollins paces across one side of the room, anxious. The new agent is relieved to see them, the tension in Rollins’ shoulders dropping. Noteworthy, but without a clear explanation in behavior. _

_ “Sit down over there and take proper care of your weapons.” Rumlow orders.  _

_ The Soldier does so, wincing a little when he sits down.  _

_ “Are you injured?”  _

_ The out of place inquiry startles the Soldier.  _

_ “No; it's muscle fatigue, sir.” He says, cautious. This is a new handler; he is not entirely sure how to act. He has a vague recollection, but nothing concrete. The Soldier is sure he remembers the correct man since Rumlow has a very distinct, angular face. He is competent, and that’s the most important characteristic. _

_ Rumlow crosses his arms, leaning against the wall. This field handler does not show his emotions, heavy brow shadowing his eyes, observing the Soldier without giving away any hints to his current mood.  _

_ When the field handler does not react to his report, the Soldier turns back to his weapons on the table. A quick glance over proves that he already cleaned them - like he thought- but his kit is back on the table.  _

_ Whatever his field handler wants. He dismantles the guns one at a time, taking care to thoroughly clean them as well as he did the first time. The safe house was not built to carry sound well, but the Soldier can hear Warren and another, unnamed agent moving around in the other rooms. _

_ Rollins and his field handler start up a whispered conversation, voices low and faint enough that the Soldier can't quite make out the words without focusing on them.  _

_ He does not eavesdrop, mostly because the Soldier does not care.  _

_ The acrid smell of the cleaning solvent provides enough of a distraction. Sitting in a wooden chair is much more comfortable than kneeling on the floor. Every so often a muscle will twitch, and the Soldier realizes that he's shaking. He has to be careful not to drop anything, not to draw attention to himself.  _

_ “Was that- in the other room, is that a common occurrence?”  Rumlow asks when the Soldier is halfway done with his task. _

_ Lifting his head, the Soldier finds both men focused on him. His field handler’s tone is flat, without any hint of his intent in his posture or expression. The Soldier can conclude that Rollins and Rumlow have some kind of connection based on how close they are standing to one another. It is most likely the fraternity that forms between men who serve together; Rumlow is Rollins’ commanding officer, but also his friend. (If one was stupid, an initial glance might have suggested that the two are related, but it is only coincidence that they are similar in build and appearance).  _

_ Which further confirms that Rollins was the one who mentioned Warren’s actions to Rumlow, and both of them did not approve. Of the act, of Warren, or maybe even the timing… the Soldier cannot pick a reason with certainty. _

_ He’s not quite sure what ‘common’ means to his field handler, but even if he did, the Soldier’s memory is hazy at best.  _

_ “It’s not… uncommon, sir.” The Soldier decides to say, observing the two of them. Again, that flash of disgust across Rollins’ face. A corner of Rumlow’s mouth twitches, but the micro-expression disappears too fast for him to make any sense out of it. _

_ “You do it because you’re told?” The almost-drawling quality in his handler’s voice is enough to make the Soldier suspicious that he’s missing something here. What other reason would he have? It’s not like they wait for him to ask. _

_ “Yes, sir.” The Soldier answers instead, uncomprehending of what his field handler is getting at. Unless Rumlow is not sure how it ‘works’ like Warren suggested and he wants to know how far to go. _

_ Rumlow tilts his head to the side. “And what if I told you that you are not allowed… would you refuse if Warren tried that again?” _

_ “If you ordered it, sir.” He responds without hesitation. What kind of question is that? _

_ His handler keeps pushing, clearly searching for something. “What if someone kept insisting?”  _

_ Is this a test of his loyalty? His sense of rank classification and the hierarchy of power? Because he knows that Rumlow outranks Warren, both in title and as a field handler. Maybe Warren and Rollins are closer in rank- they might even be the same-, but Rollins seems to have earned Rumlow’s trust, and that puts him higher up than Warren if it comes down to that.  _

_ “An order is an order, sir.” However unpleasant the consequences. But he’s the Winter Soldier; he was built to endure all kinds of pain. If it meant getting punished by men like Warren, so be it. The Soldier knows that nothing can compare to the mistake of disobeying an order from a handler. Rumlow, while he’s been fair so far, gives off the dangerous air of a man who is very comfortable causing a lot of pain if he sees the reason to do so. _

_ The field handler considers this for a few moments. The Soldier can’t decide if he did what was expected or not. Rollins looks- relieved? _

_ “Soldier,” Rumlow says in a commanding tone, and all the Soldier’s focus snaps to him. “You, under no circumstances, are allowed to provide any kind of sexual act or service to anyone as long as I am your handler. Is that understood?”  _

_ Confused, it takes longer than necessary for the Soldier to respond. “Yes, sir.” _

_ He doesn’t know why it is important to this handler, but there are worse orders to follow. ‘Anyone’ is also a really broad term; Rumlow’s power only extends so far. He would have to be delusional to believe he can completely ban everyone from using the Soldier. It’s not realistic, but the Soldier keeps his mouth shut as a strict, need-to-know basis.  _

_ “If anyone has a problem with that order, you tell them to talk to me.” Rumlow continues, his eyes locked on the Soldier like he is searching for a fault. “If I’m not there, you tell them to wait for me to get back or send them to Rollins.” _

_ “Yes, sir. I understand.” He repeats. _

_ “Good.” Rumlow nods, pleased. “You’re done cleaning. Go rest.” _

_ Dismissed, the Soldier stands up and puts the cleaning tools back in the kit. He puts the guns back together, muscle-memory carrying him through the motions as he runs over the conversation in his head again. It doesn’t make sense, but he understands what he is expected to do- what he’s not supposed to do. _

_ He leaves his weapons on the table and walks down the hall back to the room with Warren in it. Part of him is curious to see if Rumlow would really enforce his order, but Warren only looks the Soldier over, almost wistful. _

_ In return, the Soldier levels an unwavering stare at him. He’s weak with muscle fatigue and really would prefer to doze for a few hours until it’s time to go. The Soldier is in no mood to be toyed with. Warren recognizes that. _

_ He smiles at the Solder and holds his hands up, cheeky and harmless. The Soldier drops his gaze and picks the corner opposite to the door to rest.  _

_ It’s quiet, then: _

_ “Warren, you better not be starting shit!” _

_ Rumlow’s shout echoes through the rooms. The agent jumps, eyes wide. Although startled, the Soldier keeps his own reaction hidden.  _

_ “What- No, it’s all good!” Warren yells back, uncharacteristically flustered.  _

_ “Tell him it’s cool, we’re not doing anything!” He directs his comment to the Soldier, looking pointedly at the door. “He’s not going to believe me.” _

_ “Soldier?” Rumlow’s inquiry is less of a shout, but still loud. The field handler is so comfortable with his control over his men, he does not bother getting up to check personally. The Soldier allows himself to feel some respect for Rumlow.  _

_ “Behavior is within acceptable limits, sir.”  _

_ The Soldier hides his amusement at the clear relief on Warren’s face. As if he’d lie to anyone- especially to his handler in front of an agent. The following silence is content now that Rumlow has declared himself the one in charge and proved it. Warren huffs out a sigh and flops down on his sleeping bag. _

_ A rare sense of … peace settles within the Soldier, and he lets himself drift off with his eyes half-closed, keeping his watchful gaze on the door. Rumlow might be… good to work with.  _

_ He shouldn’t have a preference, but this bias is curious enough to explore. _

\-- --- --

Steve rushes to Bucky’s room once he gets the alert. 

“ **Don't touch me** !” 

Steve leaps back with his empty hands held up. Bucky stumbles away, shoulders tense. His entire body shakes. 

“Okay, okay. No one's going to touch you.” Steve says, trying to keep a small smile on his face. Bucky looks around, eyes lingering on the security guards hovering at the end of the hall.

“Do you know where you are?” Steve ventures to ask, aware of the ragged breaths Bucky takes. He doesn’t react as Bucky moves closer to him, gaze still locked on the guards. 

“A hospital,” he chokes out, eyes wide with fear. 

Fuck. This is exactly what Steve was worried about.

“ Sgt. Barnes’ heart rate has increased to 154 beats per minute.” 

Bucky jumps.

“Not helpful, JARVIS.” Steve snaps, even though he turns his attention back to Bucky.

“This is the Avengers tower, their medical floor. I wouldn't have brought you here unless you were really sick, Bucky.”

Bucky doesn't say anything. His hands tremble, and his gaze darts all over the place, looking for an escape.

Steve looks over at the security guards standing at the edge of the hall, far enough away that they really shouldn't be making Bucky nervous. He gestures for them to leave anyways, because seeing them is enough to send Bucky into a tailspin.

If Steve thought that would help calm Bucky down, he's wrong. If anything, it makes the situation worse. Bucky whips around to face Steve, panicked. 

“Please, you said- I'm not sick, I'm fully functional-”

“No, you aren't.” Steve cuts in. Bucky freezes. “You ripped out your IV and you're bleeding.”

“I- I- It's nothing, please. It'll stop bleeding soon- I'm functional, please!” Bucky stampers, noticing the blood dripping off his fingers for the first time. It isn't bad, but seeing Bucky’s blood nowadays sickens Steve. 

To humor him, Steve digs through a crash cart until he finds the gauze. He rips open the sterile packaging and offers it to Bucky. Flinching, Bucky backs away half a step. 

“It's fine- I don't need anything, please,” Bucky insists. He stares at Steve's hand like he's a threat.

Steve closes his eyes to find some composure still in him. 

“Bucky,” he starts off after a controlled sigh. “You're not eating. You can hardly walk, and you're going through withdrawal because you've been on drugs you have no business taking. You're not fine, alright?” 

Bucky’s eyes flicker towards the hall, away from where Steve is standing. 

“N-no, sir. I'm functional, sir. Please, I'm able to follow orders, sir.” Bucky inches away some more, edging towards the only visible exit. 

“Bucky,” Steve says, firm. “Get back into your room.”

He's done trying to argue. Bucky can't be expected to take care of himself, so Steve will do it for him. He's not going to let Bucky stay on this self-destructive path he's on. 

Bucky stiffens. His pale eyes lock onto Steve. He sees something he recognizes in Steve’s face and his expression twists into one of desperation. 

“Please, don't do this. I don't want to go back, please sir.” Both of his arms are up to ward Steve away. Another step backwards. 

Bucky isn't running away, per se. He's keeping himself out of reach as Steve approaches, trying to calm Bucky down.

“We're trying to help, Buck. This isn't Hydra. No one is going to hurt you, I promise.” Steve keeps pace with him, avoiding the drops of blood trailing after Bucky. 

Bucky spares a glance to his perceived exit, and trembles when he sees the guards appear to block him. He turns back to Steve. 

“S-stop, p-please.” He begs, beginning to hyperventilate. “No- please, I- I don’t want to- please, sir!”

“It's me, Steve. I'm not your handler; I'm your friend.” Steve forces himself to keep smiling. Anything to calm Bucky down. “You need to go back to your room, Buck. You're sick.”

Ten feet away from the guards now. This could be bad if Bucky lashes out. 

“Bucky,” Steve says in warning as Bucky turns to assess his chances of escape.

Bucky hesitates, and that's all Steve needs.

It isn't anywhere close to a fair fight. Bucky has no strength to hold his own- it's amazing he's standing at all. Still, Bucky struggles and Steve has to work harder to not hurt him.

“Bucky, please, stop this.” Steve crowds him up against the wall, away from other people.

“No, please!” Bucky, pleading with Steve, wiggles out of his hold. Steve allows it until Bucky tries to get past him again. 

When Steve reaches out to block Bucky from running, Bucky retaliates by leaving deep scratches along Steve’s arm. 

Hissing, Steve inspects the damage. It doesn't look too bad, but it stings like hell. He'll heal within the hour.

Bucky tenses up, horrified. 

“I'm s-sorry- I didn't mean-” 

“Yes, you did.” Steve sighs. That's the worst part of it all. Bucky acts like this is new, even though it feels like all Bucky does is lash out and apologize. Again and again and again. 

“Just- go back to your room, okay?” asks Steve, putting pressure on the scratches so his blood can clot. Bucky’s hand still oozes blood from the IV, smearing red over his fingers and wrist.

Bucky stands his ground, eyes locked on the blood dripping along Steve’s arm. Something changes in Bucky’s gaze, now hard and cold. With a jolt, Steve is reminded of how Bucky can switch between fear and hostility within moments.

Steve needs to take control, or this is going to turn into a serious altercation.

“Cpt. Rogers, I’ll take over now.”

\-- --- --

The Soldier watches as Rogers pauses, turning to address the woman striding towards him. She is lean and tall, sharp business clothes and the click of heels on tile creating an aura of authority. Rogers opens his mouth-perhaps to argue- but a leveled glare from the woman cuts off any protests.

“I’ll handle him.”

The Soldier has yet to seen anyone put Rogers in place like that. She must be very influential and powerful. He’s on edge, yet curious. Hackles rising, the Soldier braces himself as she approaches him, disapproval written across her face.

“Your behavior is unacceptable.” She is eyelevel with him, gaze unwavering. “You will not threaten my employees, nor will you attack them. Is that understood?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He spits out, unable to curb the boiling anger. Her grey eyes sharpen at his tone.

“Follow me.”

With that, she turns on her heel, red-blonde hair sweeping over her shoulder. Half a pause, and he follows. The desire to draw blood and break bones fades with her clear orders. The Soldier cannot decide if she’s going to punish him, but her confidence draws him in like a riptide.

Even in her tall heels, she does not falter or misstep once. Silence cold, she steps into a sleek elevator and presses a button that disappears from view. The Soldier feels her scrutinizing him; he cannot find it in him to meet her stare, and he lowers his eyes to the floor at her feet.

The Soldier, hesitant, tries to remember if she’s a new handler. She must be- all impulses related to challenging her wither away into nothing. Aggression morphs into uncertainty. He regrets fighting back against Rogers now. Rogers didn’t alert her, did he? No- he looked surprised to see her. The unnamed handler leads him to another floor, one that is spacious and open, built for residential living.

“This is where you’re going to be staying.” She says, gesturing to a closed door. Her nails are not too long, neatly trimmed, painted a sophisticated navy blue “You will not harm anyone who walks in; they are trying to help.”

He’s had this type of talk before.

“I understand, ma’am.” The Soldier keeps his head tilted downwards, hiding the anger that sparks up again at threat of punishment. Of course they’ll help- they will help only themselves, not the Soldier. In this situation, the Soldier is to be agreeable and accommodating for whoever walks through that door. He is to help them get what they want, not that anyone would listen or care to the Soldier.

“If there are any problems, I will deal with it personally.”

Internally, he winces. As if he’d willingly cause problems to bring this no-nonsense handler’s wrath upon him. She’s already annoyed with him; it’s best to be perfectly obedient from here on out until the Soldier proves his worth.

She glances over him one last time, before leaving without another word. The Soldier waits a few moments until she’s out of sight before he opens the door-

This isn’t right.

He feels his heart rate pick up; his grip on the door handle tightens. He lets go before he breaks something.

This is a bedroom. A  _ nice _ room. Moss green walls, a large bed centered along the back wall. Dark wood furniture- real wood dresser and nightstand. A desk next to a large window with off-white curtains. Two bookcases on the wall opposite the desk. The carpet is a dark green, thick and soft under his feet- since when did he not have boots on?

Then the Soldier says fuck it.

He closes the door behind him- no lock, as expected. A quick sweep of the room discovers a few monitoring systems built into the ceiling fan and the lamp. The grate over the vent won’t open.

Suspicious, but resigned to whatever trick this is supposed to be, he checks out the attached bathroom and closet. No sharp objects anywhere. Fair enough. Not that he needs anything to kill with besides himself.

With the lack of drugs flowing into his veins, he notices the steady increase in pain pushing at the edge of his mind like fog against glass. His chest feels empty, vibrating with the absence of… he doesn’t know.

Last, he sits on the bed. Cool grey sheets and off-white comforter. The contrast of clean and precise reminds the Soldier how out of place he is in this room. But the consequences are not up for reconsideration; the damage has been done the moment he acted like he owned this space.

If anything, at least he can set a baseline for the woman handler’s behavior.

The lights dim when he lies down. Adrenaline bursts through his system, but he refrains from jumping to his feet. He bites the inside of his cheek, and takes the leap. He closes his eyes.

(He didn’t intend to fall asleep. He listened for hours without cause for concern, and the Soldier drifted off to sleep without realizing it).

\-- --- --

_ People come in later. Hours, minutes… _

_ “This is fucking hot.”  _

_ Someone, a man, digs his finger into a bruise on its back, pushing to the point of pain. It doesn't react, exhausted. _

I'm not ready-! Please!

_ “Damn. The lady knows how to work him over.” Another man. _

_ ( _ **_Shut up! It's your fucking mess-_ ** _ ) _

_ Heavy tread around it, circling- _

_ More than three, maybe five. _

Please, I can't do this again-

_ Someone joins it on the bed, inciting laughter and jeers. Hands on it, again. This time the grip is strong enough to leave bruises- _

_ ( _ **_THEN LET ME IN AND STOP FREAKING OUT!_ ** _ ) _

_ “Ready for round two, bitch?” The one behind demands, unbuckling his belt after pulling off the standard uniform gloves. _

I can't! I don't know how- please help me-

_ It lets out a panicked gasp when a hand touches its back. Another man follows the sound with a sudden slap to the face. _

_ ( _ **_Just calm down!_ ** _ ) _

_ It stares at them, stunned into silence. The man’s expression twists into one of anger and it flinches before the second hit lands. _

There is too many- I can't-!

_ “You fucking slut,” the man standing at the edge of the bed hisses, yanking it forward by the hair. It scrambles onto its hands and knees, and the pain in its scalp lessens some. _

_ (THE BODY CAN ONLY HANDLE SO MUCH STRESS!  _ **_RELAX, DAMN IT_ ** _!) _

_ “If you're asked a question, you answer it.” _

_ It nods. The man behind taps its thigh. It, grateful for the lack of painful prodding, widens its stance. Even though it trembles visibly- _

_ (Good. Do as they say.) _

_ Another hit, hard enough to split its lip. _

I don't want to! I don't- please I can't do this again-

_ “Do you understand?” _

_ ( _ **_YOU HAVE TO_ ** _. OTHERWISE THE BODY IS GOING TO PANIC AND IT WILL BE WORSE-) _

_ “Yessir, I understand!” It says quickly, trying to swallow down the fear sharpening its voice with edges of desperation. Blood seeps into its mouth, tasting like metal and salt. Some drips down along its chin. _

They're hurting me! Stop them, please! 

_ Its head is pushed down into the mattress, the hold on its neck sparking a shudder of helplessness. It has to move it's left arm out from underneath it to go down the way it's ordered, already hurting with the angle it is expected to hold. Its quads and abdomen scream with the strain, overworked. _

_ ( _ **_Relax right fucking now!_ ** _ Don't piss them off-) _

_ “I believe the man asked you a question, Soldier.” A voice growls in its ear, just as pain spikes through its left shoulder. _

_ It can't turn it's head to see- _

It hurts-! I can't breathe!

_ “Make him ask for it, Blake.” Someone encourages, and others agree. _

_ (This is not the place; the Soldier will only cause more pain. Not now.) _

_ The anticipation of the room brightens like fire consuming fuel, greedy and harmful.  _

_ “Beg.” The man in front orders after a lengthy pause, tone cold. _

_ ( _ **_SETTLE DOWN AND FOLLOW THE FUCKING ORDERS!_ ** _ ) _

_ A moment of hesitation costs it another burst of pain. It yelps, and the men's laughter follows. _

_ “Please,” it forces out, eyes clenched shut. “Please, sir.” _

_ Agony, between its legs and racing along its back- _

It hurts so much! Stop it, please! Help me! help me _ - _

_ Laughter and the roaming hands move closer as the group settles in, trapping it in a wall of danger. _

_ (Relax! It always hurts more when you're scared- relax, please? The body needs you to  _ **_fucking calm down_ ** _ so it doesn't sustain critical damage-) _

_ “You can do better than that.”  _

_ The man behind moves. It gags when the pain increases exponentially, swallowing down bile. It shifts a little to ease the pain, but stops at the tight grip in its hair. _

I'm trying! I - I can't- Why won't t-they-

_ (BREATHE! IN. HOLD. OUT.) _

_ “Give me just one fucking reason, and we'll leave you in a bloody heap on the floor.” The man standing at its head growls, full of promise. “Beg like you mean it.”  _

_ “P-please, sir. I want this, please, sir.” It whimpers, scared. _

Why d-did they-? I didn't- I w-want to be good-!

_ Words that taste of shame and ever-present confusion. Rotten sounds and wide, blank eyes. _

_ (Shh, you need to relax for us-) _

I - I d-don’t w-want to be- to- to be here-

_ “Oh, this is amazing.” The man behind groans, aroused and relax in ways it isn't- “Yeah, bitch, take it.’ _

_ (Easy-  _ **_DON’T YOU FUCKING DISAPPEAR!)_ **

_ Whines catch in it's throat, unable to process a way to ease the awful pain. Trying to find some kind of purchase on the bed to brace itself against- _

_ “That's better.” _

_ His gloved hand caresses through its hair, and it can't help but push into the contact, eyes filled with tears. Thankfully, the man in front just smirks and pulls his hand away without more punishment. _

_ (See? They can be nice- STOP SLIPPING AWAY!) _

_ “Open your mouth.” _

_ The hold on its neck disappears. Metal clinking. A belt. _

I can't _ - _

_ Its eyelids fly open to stare up into the face of the second man. Standard source of pain: masculine, authoritarian.  _

_ “If I feel your teeth I'm going to pull them out, understood?” _

_ (Ugh-… -useless.  _ **_Worse_ ** _ \- …. !) _

_ The threat is spoken easily, careless, and so very possible. It is not going to make this worse on purpose.  _

_ “Y-yes, s-sir.” It swallows down another sob. “P-please, sir. May I…?” _

_ Humiliation at skin-on-skin, cringing at the distinctive lack of restraint. The only control in the room is held over it, suffocating and tight.  _

_ The man smiles. “Good boy.” _

I can't...

_ (By the time they are sated, they leave it on the floor in a bloody, discarded heap.  _

_ That's when the Soldier regains enough control to focus his attention on the stone floor. He smoothes out its breathing from ragged, pained gasps to a resemblance of normalcy. He repeats words and numbers in his head, a random collection that becomes the focus point from which everything else fades away. _

_ It seeks comfort, crying for attention like a kitten without thought to the danger lurking. The Soldier pushes it out, ignores the impulse to drag himself to the connecting room to seek company, bad or worse. _

_ The Soldier hates it). _

\-- --- --

It doesn't stop! _Why can't he_ _stop remembering_ , _please_?

\-- --- --

Steve runs a soothing hand through Bucky’s hair, other hand sliding up and down Bucky’s back. He's whispering all sorts of nonsense, anything he can think of to try and bring Bucky’s focus back to the living. 

Tears are silver lines in the dim lighting as they trail across Bucky’s skin. The only hint that Bucky is freaking out is the shallow gasps that catch in his throat. Strained, choked-back sobs that make Steve feel hollow with how fucking useless he is.

Steve isn’t sure if Bucky is awake since he hasn’t opened his eyes. Bucky might be asleep still, but it’s not quality rest. Not with the amount of tossing and turning he’s done. Blankets are twisted around Bucky’s legs; Steve pulls them free and then tucks them in again. Anything that could minimize the intensity of the flashbacks.

Dr. Robert’s report shows that Bucky’s brain is healing, bridging the dead gaps of neurons where the wipes prevented Bucky from accessing his memories. It would have been good news, if not for the fact that the memories Bucky can access are not happy ones; just based on probability, most of Bucky’s lost memories are of Hydra. It explains the increased number of flashbacks and night terrors, often both of them bleeding together in a catastrophic mess of panic and all-consuming desperation.

The drugs Bucky abused helped to hide the symptoms. Bucky’s psychiatrist would like to meet him when he’s lucid, but Bucky hasn’t been processing anything. He can’t hear Steve talk to him, trying to calm him down and remind him that it’s 2016, he’s safe. Nothing Steve does wakes him up; it terrifies him.

“Bucky, please.” Steve whispers, voice cracking. “You can’t leave me again.”

\-- --- --

Rumlow sinks into his couch with a groan, letting Perry worry about locking the door behind them. The specialized parole officer tosses the keys onto the table, wandering into the kitchen.

“Want anything?” She asks.

“Sure, make yourself at home,” Rumlow grumbles into the couch, caustic from the crackling pain under his skin. It’s new tissue that some genius scientist grew from Rumlow’s on cells or some weird shit like that. It’s a combination of bribery and reward as long as Rumlow continues to be helpful to the ongoing investigation.

Like he’d say fucking no.

Perry chuckles and pulls something out of the fridge. Her heavy footsteps cause the floorboards to creak. A clink of a can hitting the floor next to Rumlow’s head, and she takes residence in the most comfortable chair.

The sound of carbonated drink fizzing brings Rumlow pause. Huh. His hearing seems to be getting better. Rumlow reaches for chilled aluminum as he sits up.

“Hell, Perry. You’re killing me!” He glares at the coke in his hand. She shrugs her broad shoulders, knowing that Rumlow is not going to switch out for a pepsi, even if he gripes about it. Almost as passive-aggressive as the Soldier at times-jesus.

He’s not winning this argument.

“I hear you’re looking for the Winter Soldier.”

Rumlow takes a sip of the coke, pulling a face. Why the hell does coke and pepsi have to be so different from each other, he doesn’t fucking understand.

If Rumlow wasn’t confident in the FBI’s ability to scan for any listening devices, he might have to be worried about his cover being blown.

“‘Looking’ is a loose term,” he says, deliberately vague.

Perry mulls it over. “Taking your time?”

He smirks. “Why look for something that isn’t lost?”

She’s making him walk her through it, acting dull when in reality, Rumlow knows she’s quick on her feet. A scary combination with her imposing physical size. But she plays the dumb, gym-obsessed officer well outside of closed doors.

Without a word, Rumlow taps the couch with his hand.

Perry almost spits out her drink. “You’re serious?”

Rumlow’s expression tells her that he’s not joking.

“Should I be concerned?”

“I’ll talk to him.” He makes a mental note to do so. The Soldier is territorial, and if Perry startles him she’s not walking out of the fight.

She sighs, glancing up to the ceiling. “I’ll fucking end you, Rumlow, if he kills me.”

“Swear jar,” Rumlow says in lieu of a response. Scowling, Perry takes out a dollar and stuffs it into the collection of mostly Rumlow’s change. It’s a stupid fucking thing; but as a parole officer her end goal really is to ‘better’ him.

Rumlow will swear as much as he fucking wants. A lack of coins in his pocket isn’t going to deter him.

\-- --- --

Farah remains silent as Steve spends half of his allotted appointment running his fingers through a tray of sand. The silence is not awkward; even though Steve believes it should be. It helps that she rolls out a long rope of clay, coils it into a spiral, and then squishes it back into a ball to start the process over again.

“I don’t know where to begin,” admits Steve, his whisper a shout over the ambient white noise. Grains of sand get stuck under his nails, the irritation keeping his focus as he draws a continuous line around the tray, growing smaller and smaller.

Sensing that he has more to say, Farah waits for Steve to continue.

“I slept through the entire night.” That’s important, probably. He’s not sure how this works, but Steve has to offer her something to help her understand the weight crushing his chest.

“I’m guessing that is unusual for you.” 

Steve nods. He sweeps the sand clear of the lines so he can start over. It helps him not pace around the room, which grows anxiety in other people as well as himself.

“Back during the war, I would take watch or we’d be sneaking deeper into dangerous territory. Before that, I’d wake up sick or because something flared during the night…” Now, he can’t sleep because Bucky can’t.

“How did you feel this morning, knowing that you slept the entire night?” She asks, now making little cubes to line up on the coffee table. 

Having something to do with his hands gives the impression of a casual meeting. If he was allowed to fidget with objects in Shield’s mandatory sessions, maybe he would have been open with the therapist. Or not. Steve knows that he has been difficult with health professionals in the past.

“Well rested for once,” he lies. The word on the tip of his tongue is guilty, but he’s not about to open up everything to a therapist yet. Steve likes her so far, which is an achievement all in its own. It could very well be the pastel mint of her hijab, but he likes that this isn’t a stifling, formal setting.

She tries to get him to explain further, but Steve all but bolts out the door as soon as the clock ticks down his session.

\-- --- --

“Bucky.”

Steve’s voice, soft and friendly. Bucky finds that he’s too exhausted to do much besides pay attention. He’s been asleep forever.

“Hi Steve,” Bucky mumbles, turning his face into the warm spot on his pillow. This bed is really nice; he can’t remember that last time he felt this level of comfort.

“Bucky?” Steve sounds startled. The pressure of someone’s hand on Bucky’s shoulder sends a jolt through him.

“Please, don’t...” Bucky trails off when Steve realizes what he’s doing. Everything feels fake, just one hard shove away from collapsing into fragments. Bucky isn’t sure that he’s even awake at this point- he’d usually try to cut open skin to combat the dreaming sensation, but he doesn’t want to risk upsetting Steve like that.

“Sorry- I’m sorry.”

Why is Steve upset? He wasn’t hurting Bucky.

“Steve, ‘m really tired.” He says, pulling the silky-perfect blankets over his face. Just in case this is fake and Bucky can’t help but open his eyes to see someone else with Steve’s voice.

It’s happened before.

“I know, Buck.” Steve’s voice is strained like he’s trying not to cry. “You can go back to sleep.”

Bucky doesn’t really want to, but it seems his body keeps sinking like a broken ship. What he wants and what actually happens are almost always opposite.

“What’s the date?” He needs to know-

“March sixteenth,” Steve answers, but he either doesn’t include the year or Bucky misses it.

Without context, nothing means anything to him anymore.

\-- --- --

_ I don’t want to be here anymore! _

_ I know there’s nothing left worth staying for, _

_ Your paradise is something I’ve endured _

 

_ See, I don’t think I can fight this anymore, _

_ I’m listening with one foot out the door, _

_ If something has to die to be reborn, _

_ I don’t want to be here anymore!” _

_ “I Don’t Want To Be Here Anymore” by Rise Against; “The Black Market” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!!!
> 
> Did you notice that this was the first time Bucky’s POV used Bucky as his name???? Important things are happening!!!
> 
> I’m making a new sister work that is going to provide all of the background information/plot points/my intent as an author/ and anything else you’d ever want to know for War + Hell. I’m going to catch that ‘behind the scenes’ work up with this one before I start posting new chapters again. Just a heads up that you can find my worldbuilding if you get bored of waiting :P
> 
> If you have any comments or questions, please ask them and I’ll do my best to explain. If you have criticism, give me clear points of your argument so I can understand where you are coming from and change accordingly if I feel your stance is valid :)


	9. (I'll pick a song later I'm blank)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Attempted Suicide, Suicide idealization, Self-harm, manipulation, non-consensual drug use, victim blaming, victimization, non-con/rape/sexual assault, intense flashbacks, dissociation,
> 
> Bucky’s alters are much more talkative to one another in this chapter, so here’s a cheat sheet: When an alter is talking in Bucky’s head, their words are bracketed [like this].  
> The Soldier: [Bolded text] when not fronting, he/him  
> “They”/unnamed protector/the gatekeeper: [Italicized text] in normal text, or [normal text] among italicized. They/them.  
> It/unnamed submissive alter: ‘It’. Only talks when fronting (in charge of the body), so normal text. It/its pronouns. ***Its thoughts are most often expressed without brackets, as this   
> James: Neutral alter, most often out. If not out, he’s silent. He/him. (Most similar to the gatekeeper in personality)  
> Bucky: Almost never out, and is almost always silent. He/him.  
> ***whichever alter is in control has normal text among normal text. For example, if the Soldier is in charge his thoughts are normal text, even if they are usually bolded.

> Oh.
> 
> My. 
> 
> God. 
> 
> Can we talk about how the FBI let some Hydra agents walk free, even though there is ample evidence that a). They are fucking terrible humans and are directly responsible for more than a few deaths and b). Most of them interacted with Sgt. Barnes, and there is almost no chance that they didn’t hurt him?!?!? It’s sickening that there is enough evidence to incriminate them, yet these worthless Hydra agents get to live their own lives.
> 
> > I know, it makes me so disgusted with the criminal justice system. I hope Bucky kills them.
> 
> >> Uh, guys? First, there is such thing as negotiating with petty criminals for reducing sentences to get to more dangerous criminals. Hydra is a huge organization, so the FBI might be prioritizing who they are after. Second, they are known Hydra agents so I bet their lives are going to be shit because anyone who isn’t Hydra is going to hate them. Third, Barnes is walking a fine line killing Hydra agents. I bet the FBI is turning a blind eye to it, but sooner or later he could kill the wrong person and then it’s over for him. 
> 
> I know that these people have done some terrible things, but maybe not all of them. Not every single Hydra agent is ‘Pierce level bad’.
> 
> >>>*shudders*. I can’t imagine that someone could be so fucking cruel and horrible. I wish he suffered more. A shot to the chest is nothing compared to what he did.
> 
> >>>>yeah i agree but wasn’t he about to kill black widdow? i don’t think she had a choice. But i get what yall are saying. he was a fucking monster.

\-- --- --

It is the Soldier who wakes the next time Sophie hands him medication and a cup of water. He is aware for the first time in.... a long time. The Soldier guesses that the pills sitting in Sophie’s palm are causing him to remain useless, docile. 

Sophie follows orders, so the Soldier doesn’t blame her for his lacking ability to function. Still, as a technician, she will have to report any undesired behavior if she notices that he is not cooperating. He takes the glass and the three pills. The third one he hides between his middle and ring finger on his right hand, a sleight of hand that Sophie does not appear to notice.

_ [What the fuck are you doing?] _ They hardly ever swear, radiating disapproval as the Soldier fakes taking all three pills. Cutting the dose by a third won’t get rid of all the effects, but lessen the dose enough for him to think.

If anything, he’s familiar with the syrupy way the world moves around him. He can work with this. (He can work with almost anything, really. His tolerance for pain and injury is impressive). 

“How are you feeling?” Sophie asks as she takes the glass back. The Soldier scans the room as he lies down on the bed. Heavy curtains cover the windows. Some light filters through the thick fabric, weak and cool. It must be morning.

“Tired.” It’s not a lie. The body is aching and exhausted, and the pull of the sedatives multiply the sensation of complete weakness. Sophie adjusts the covers- why is the room so cold?

She touches a hand to the Soldier’s forehead, then his cheeks. He forces down an instinctive flinch or growl to get her away from him. 

“Yeah, you haven’t been eating much at all. Your body doesn’t have enough energy.”

The Soldier considers the lack of hunger twisting his stomach into knots. He doesn’t feel hungry… but the Soldier has dealt with weeks of starvation before. It must not be severe. If that is true, then the medication dose must be higher than normal if it is affecting him like this.

He needs to get himself off of the sedative as soon as he can. 

_ [We don’t need any more problems. Why do you think we can’t remember most of what has happened to get us here?!] _

[Don’t act like I did this to us!] The Soldier hisses back. [I keep us  **safe** !]

Sophie cuts through the distraction with a gentle touch on his arm. Deep, dark fury flashes like lightning through the Solder- nobody fucking touches him. It doesn’t take much force to snap the ulna and radius-

The Soldier clenches his jaw. He can’t hurt Sophie. 

She looks at him with open concern. The right corner of her mouth tucks into a little frown when she is unsure or cautious.

“I’ll let you be. Is everything alright?”

“Yes.” It will be once he can cut into the doses she keeps giving him. But where to hide the pill? There is a dresser across from the bed, a nightstand to his immediate right, and the doors to the closet and bathroom on the adjacent wall. Two bookshelves filled with books stand on both sides of the room.

He can’t do anything that will draw suspicion. There must be cameras somewhere to keep an eye on him. 

Sophie flicks her long braid over her shoulder and then runs her fingers over it. Fidgeting. She is nervous, uneasy. As always, she is wearing long sleeves and a jacket. Her clothes are casual wear, not the semi-formal slacks and white dress shirt techs had to wear with Hydra. It’s… odd. 

“Okay. If you need anything, let me know.” She picks the glass off of the nightstand, wipes off the coaster on her jeans, and picks up a translucent orange bottle- the sedative. He can’t get a good enough look to read the label as she glances back at him. 

The Soldier nods. The sedative weights down his body, forcing him to fight against the dulling of his senses and his thoughts. He closes his eyes, shifts around until he’s comfortable, and listens as the door close behind her with a quiet click.

For now, he tucks the pill into his pillowcase. 

_ [You’re making such a fuss over this,]  _ they grumble.  _ [If they find out-] _

[Then I’ll fucking deal with it! You worry constantly.]

_ [I don’t think you should be deliberately disobeying Sophie, Rogers, and whoever else is in charge. The red-blonde lady was not pleased with your behavior, but sure. Go for it. I’m sure we’ll be fine.]  _

The sarcasm is new and not appreciated.

The Soldier ignores them. Rogers can’t do anything that would be worse than anything else he’s experienced-

_ [Don’t you fucking dare! You might be able to handle more punishment than the rest of us, but it can always get worse!  _ **_Always_ ** _. And you know how It gets when the body is getting hurt-] _

[It is useless and weak!] He spits, riled up at the mere mention of It. [Why the fuck do you still let It be in control?]

_ [I can’t always chose! And It can be helpful, because you’re a nightmare at obeying orders when furious. Handlers can see through your acts. You scare them-] _

[ **As I should.]**

_ [-and sometimes It is better for us if It is in control. It always obeys orders, and It isn’t threatening to anyone-] _

[Let me fucking deal with the consequences! It’s like a damn child! I hate It-]

Fear slams into him-

_ He never feels this level of panic, not when the mission went well. All objectives were completed! Why is this happening? He stumbles back against the wall to stay standing. A young caucasian man-vibrant green eyes, short brown hair, maybe mid to late twenties years old- watches, interested, as the Soldier slides down to the floor. _

_ It’s hard to breathe. All of his self-control cannot make a dent in the mind’s consuming desperation to breathe and balance the oxygen to carbon dioxide saturation levels in his blood. He rips the mask off, but it doesn’t help. It doesn’t work- he struggles to force his lungs to expand, diaphragm refusing to cooperate. Rain patters against the roof of the safe house, soft compared to his ragged, short gasps.  _

_ “Shh, take it easy.” The man drags the Soldier’s head up, fingers twisted in his hair. The man’s voice is kind, but his gaze is hard. Green eyes soak up the Soldier’s growing terror. He can’t- _

_ “Hhhnng-” The Soldier tries to beg, to ask why he’s being punished like this, but his mouth won’t form the words. Anxiety eats away at his chest, leaving a gaping hole filled with confused fear. It must have been the water. _

_ His eyes dart to the canteen sitting on the table. He said the Soldier could have it! He wants to scream in rage. He said the Soldier did well! This is uncalled for! _

_ Alvarez-the name slips into his mind like poison- kneels and lifts the Soldier’s chin, thumb stroking the Soldier’s jaw. The man’s eyes are dilated. Strength seeps out of his limbs- his body becomes weaker and harder to control. _

_ “So much power.” Alvarez murmurs, eyes sweeping over the Soldier’s body slumped against the wall. “Your work is amazing.” His voice is low with reverence. His hand trails from the Soldier’s chin to the body armor, following the contours of the ceramic plates and Kevlar down to- _

_ The Soldier tries to flinch away, choking on a protest, wishing it was a sharp warning not a pathetic gasp of panic- _

_ Alvarez sends the Soldier crashing to the floor. Pain lights up his cheek, jaw, and shoulder. The Soldier couldn’t catch his fall- whatever the young man gave him is preventing his muscles from responding. _

_ “Stop acting like you’re above me, bitch.” Alvarez hisses. The Soldier tries, he really tries to face him but it is impossible to fight when all his energy is focused on breathing. The lack of ability to move is sickening. _

_ He is kicked in the ribs, hard. The kevlar spreads out the inertia over a larger area so his ribs don’t break, but it disrupts his already labored attempt at breathing. Alvarez pushes the Soldier onto his back. Brief flash of anger spent, Alvarez run his fingernails over the column of the Soldier’s throat. He seems… distracted with the Soldier’s body. _

_ It reminds him of worship: The absent brush of fingers over a statue rubbed golden by hundred of thousands of people doing the same. People watching a religious leader with rapt passion that shuts out every other stimulus. _

_ The switch between anger and- and interest is terrifying.  _

_ When Alvarez removes the thirty pounds of bulletproof vest, it is easier to breathe. The Soldier’s head pounds and the edges of his vision are faded, but whatever drug he was given leaves him at the limbo before unconsciousness. He can’t even gasp anymore- his breaths are slow and shallow, despite the anxiety jumping, trapped, in his limbs. His heart rate is steady at a lower pace than what is considered normal. Like his body is asleep but his mind is awake.  _

_ He stares up at the ceiling. Alvarez peels off the leather uniform jacket and the sweat-soaked cotton shirt underneath. His hands are too cold against the battle-fever flush of the Soldier’s skin. The young man maneuvers the Soldier back to lean against the wall, legs stretched out in front of him.  _

_ The Soldier’s head flops down without support- he can’t keep his head up! The flood of adrenaline in his system is useless, gathering without an outlet. _

_ “There you go,” the young man says when he places something behind the Soldier’s back and adjusts him so the Soldier’s head is tilted back enough so he can breathe. When Alvarez reaches into his pocket for a small bag, the Soldier clenches his jaw tight. _

_ But Alvarez easily slips a finger into the Soldier’s mouth between his teeth. The Soldier growls- it sticks in his chest- and tries to bite down. Alvarez frowns. _

_ “Stop fighting me; you can’t do anything about it.” He speaks as if soothing an animal, a faint smile softening the man’s expression. “Relax.” _

_ Alvarez opens the Soldier’s mouth enough for him to place a small white piece of… paper on his tongue. _

_ “The guys say they do this with you all of the time. Don’t act like this for me just because I’m the newest.” He checks his watch, wiping the saliva from his fingers on the Soldier’s pants. “The water should have taken about twenty minutes to kick in, but I don’t want to keep you waiting.” _

_ … what? _

_ A sharp metallic taste makes him gag. He tries to spit it out, but the paper dissolves before he can. Alvarez clamps a hand over the Soldier’s mouth, forcing his head back until he swallows the new drug that tastes the way battery acid smells. _

_ This isn’t familiar. He can’t get a good read off of Alvarez besides- besides-  _

_ The young man chuckles and grabs the Soldier’s jaw to force him to make eye contact. “Wow, you’re really out of it already.” The teasing arrogance is the worst because both of them know the Soldier would otherwise have Alvarez in fucking pieces, scattered in the woods with his organs spilling over the decaying leaves- _

_ Alvarez tilts his head. “You don’t remember, do you?”  _

_ The Soldier wants to growl. Remember what? He tries to think- his head pounds with his heart. He remembers the mission and the briefing, his target, the criteria that needed to be met… anything else was considered extraneous. _

_ “Oh, you really don’t? I thought it was a joke-” Alvarez’s laughter is genuine. He seems… delighted. “This is- oh, this is laughably easy. I almost feel bad. The infamous Winter Soldier’s one weakness is memory?” _

_ Despite the situation, the young man’s comment sparks a flash of annoyance. Alvarez himself is as fragile as any other team member. It takes just over five hundred pounds of pressure to crush the human skull- it is well within the Soldier’s capabilities to deliver that much force. In comparison, collapsing the trachea takes only a fraction of that power-hell, the Soldier could crush a man’s throat by accident. A bleed out from the femoral artery would take only a few minutes, while a severed carotid would take seconds- _

_ Alvarez pushes him down to the floor again. The Soldier is very deliberate to only focus on all of the ways he could kill Alvarez- no, please- _

_ Painful. What would be- oh, god- the most painful? What would take a long time? Teeth. He could rip them out or crush them. That would be- no, no, no, stop it, please! Broken ribs are very painful and limit movement- _

_ Gouging out his eyes would cause extreme fear. Anticipation is as bad as any torture- the Soldier shudders. Alvarez pauses, saying something as he- as he- _

_ No, what else? He tries to not pay attention- He could leave Alvarez out in the night with a broken jaw, tied to a tree. Somewhere far away from the safe house where the animals would find him. Break the tarsals so he can’t walk- _

_ A whine slips out- _

_ Burns are very painful. It’s easy to start a fire, but it is conspicuous. They would find him quickly- they always find him. The room shivers. The Soldier wonders if he’s sustained a head injury. His vision is blurry- oh, he’s… crying. _

_ Movement at the edge of his vision. Body heat and pain and disgusting, inescapable hands- please, please, stop- _

_ A spot on the floor grows, flashing bright hyper-saturated colors before his eyes. Another one appears a few inches away- growing. They melt together-  _

_ Crawling and fracturing, the room spirals into- into- shapes that glisten and twist. Live organisms creep across the floor towards him. He wants to get away. The wood panels detach from the floor and wrap around his limbs, the nails digging into his skin to keep him pinned- the Soldier closes his eyes, but the things get inside anyways wherever there is pain, burrowing deep with the horror and shame- _

_ Someone forces his jaw open- No! Stop! Don’t, please!  _

_ He can’t scream as the shapes pour into his throat and fill up his lungs- a high pitched, endless screech of panic echoes in his head- _

The Soldier barely manages to make it to the toilet in time before he throws up.

[What the fuck?!] He demands between heaves. [Why would you-?] 

Cold anger emanates from the protector.  _ [That entire situation would have been better handled by anyone else  _ **_but_ ** _ you. Not only did you not allow myself or It to take over, but you deliberately ignored and disobeyed orders-] _

[The mission went well!] The Soldier argues, snarling. [He had no right to do what he did! It’s not my fault-]

_ [WE WERE THERE FOR HOURS!] They roar back, stunning him into silence. [WE COULDN’T MOVE, COULDN’T TALK. ONLY UNTIL YOU WERE OVERWHELMED DID YOU LET ME IN, AND BY THEN IT WAS TOO LATE TO DO ANYTHING TO APPEASE THEM]. _

The Soldier tries to remember- no, there was… He curbs the urge to gag, stomach rolling.

_ [I’ll bring the entire memory back and force you through all of it, I swear to fucking god.]  _ They threaten. 

[ **No!** ] He snaps, horrified. [No, enough-]

_ [You do  _ **_not_ ** _ get to choose who is out. If I decide It is best suited, you will relinquish control and allow It to do what you can’t.] _

The Soldier rubs his eyes, spits into the toilet. [Okay, okay. I’ll… let you decide,] he concedes- but only because he’s not prepared to deal with this new revelation. On shaking legs, he stands up, flushes the toilet, and drinks water from the faucet until the taste of bile is gone. The water does not sit right in his stomach, but he keeps it down. 

The protector lingers, irritated, but lets the Soldier grapple with the memory pressing at him from all sides. The sicking, twisting fear fills his throat and chest even though he knows it is a memory. He shivers. The plates on his left arm release the tension radiating from his jaw and neck down to his fingers.

[Fuck! You didn’t have to do that- fucking hell.] He forces himself to take a deep breath and let it out slowly. The tile is cold against his bare feet, grounding him. The Soldier sits down and leans against the counter cabinet, too dizzy to walk back to the bed right now.

A knock on the bedroom door startles him, but he doesn’t have the energy to do anything about it. 

“Is everything okay?” It is Rogers. He sounds concerned. “Bucky?”

Rogers appears in the doorway of the bathroom, wearing his stealth uniform. Dust and grime cover the navy fabric. His hair is sticking up and he has dirt on his face following the contours of his helmet. 

“JARVIS said you were throwing up.” He says as if that is an explanation for his interest. “Do you mind if I come in?”

The Soldier shakes his head, not trusting himself to talk. Rogers isn’t the worst person to deal with at the moment. Rogers stifles a groan as he sits down across from him, stiff and sore from his mission. He places the helmet on the floor. He isn’t carrying his shield at the moment. 

Scanning a critical eye over Rogers, the Soldier can't spot any serious injuries, not when Rogers can breathe at a normal pace. It draws him back to-

[See?! Why the fuck would you do that to me?!? I can't focus, damn it!]

_ [You said you could suffer through whatever handlers throw at you because nothing can't be worse than the past. I merely wanted to remind you of past incidents].  _ They retort.  

The Soldier almost growls in frustration. [You deliberately incapacitated my ability to function! That's absolutely un-fucking-believable.]

_ [Then have some respect! It has a responsibility like you; however, you cannot hate It because you don't like what It does.] _

[It's weak and clueless and It cries all the time-]

_ [Yes, but It has the same right to be here as you-] _

“Bucky, hey.” Rogers looks at him, having inched closer since the Soldier last paid attention to him. His startlingly clear blue eyes reflect worry and concern, no hint of sinister motive lurking. Although, what the fuck does he know?

“You’re shaking.”

Oh, he is. The Soldier rests his head on his knees with a ragged exhale. Rogers is silent for a few moments.

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

What is he trying to do? Rogers sounds sincere; it is concerning. 

_ [He’s trying to be nice.] _ They say, gentle.

[Why?]

_ [… maybe Rogers wants you to trust him.] _

The Soldier bristles.  **[Why?]**

_ [Why do you think Rumlow treats us well? Because you obey him, and Rumlow likes being in control. He likes working with us, so he’s a fair handler.] _

The Soldier mulls this over. [ Rogers may be trying to be nice because he wants us to like him...?]

_ [I believe so. He seems to be a very concerned handler.] _

_ [And he feeds us.]  _ They add after a pause.

[He drugs us, too.]

They are amused at his irritation.  _ [Yes, but he isn’t mostly bad.] _

The Soldier cannot argue-

“-cky?”

\-- --- --

Steve watches, concerned, as Bucky rubs his eyes with his right hand, yawns, and then blinks. He looks exhausted, but somewhat with it.

“Medication,” Bucky mumbles, bleary eyed.

“Oh. Yeah, diazepam seems to make you really tired.” Steve says once it clicks that Bucky’s trying to explain why he’s half asleep sitting on the floor of his bathroom. “You’re really close to being on a milder dose in a few days if it goes well.”

Bucky makes an inquisitive sound in the back of his throat that serves as a question all on its own. 

Steve scratches at the collar of his stealth uniform. Of course, Bucky doesn’t remember. He was either unconscious or throwing up his guts due to withdrawal. Thank god there are no seizures this time around. 

“Lowing the dose makes you pretty sick most of the time. But once it’s done, you’ll feel a lot better.” Steve embellishes a little but seeing that Bucky is able to interact a somewhat reasonable amount sparks a little flame of hope in his heart. The nasty cocktail of drugs found in Bucky’s system could very well be responsible for altering Bucky’s mood and healing capabilities.

Bucky yawns again, this time wide enough for Steve to hear his jaw pop. He hides a wince. The sound reminds him that most of Bucky’s jaw is some combination of ceramic, hard plastic, and metal.

“You need help getting back to bed?” Steve stands up with a groan, stretching and twisting until the almost pleasant burn of sore muscles eases. The irritation from finding an abandoned Hydra base faded slowly over the trip back. Now he’s tired and wants nothing more than to take a hot shower and sleep. Maybe some food first? He’s always hungry after fighting.

Bucky yawns yet again. This time Steve can’t stop himself from yawning, too.

“No.”

A moment of consideration eases Steve’s impulse to offer his assistance regardless of Bucky’s response.  Bucky isn’t throwing up anymore. It could very well be a one-off thing due to medication dosing.

“If you’re hungry, I’m sure there is something in the fridge that you would like. Take a look later, maybe?” Dirt and whatever else drifts down when Steve touches his hair. He pulls a face. Showering is the first priority, then food. 

“Okay.” Bucky looks up this time and makes eye contact. The bags under his eyes haven’t faded in the slightest, making it look like he has severe allergies with how puffy they are. All this sleeping might not be helping after all.

There isn’t much anyone can do about it besides waiting out the withdrawal and hoping Bucky eats  _ something _ . He isn’t going to starve to death anytime soon, but Steve finds it disconcerting that Bucky looks much more scrawny and lopsided now that his muscles are wasting away except for the artificial ones supporting his arm.

“Alright.” Steve doesn’t have anything else to say. “If you need anything, ask.”

Bucky remains silent as Steve backs out of his room. The room is nice, if not a bit impersonal. Besides Bucky’s backpack sitting at the foot of the bed, there are no decorations or personal items to hint that someone lives here. One day they’ll get there.

Steve sighs after he closes the door. Dealing with Bucky recently has been just that- dealing with him. Steve can never be sure if he is going to be greeted with anger or fear. Or plain disinterest and apathy. 

It is better than having Bucky fighting tooth and nail to get out of a hospital. Steve’s skin crawls thinking about it. Bucky has almost no recollection of the trial and previous hospitalization. Steve doesn’t think he could deal with that again as long as he lives.

There is a lot of shit he has dealt with that he would never like to even  _ remember  _ ever again. 

The elevator door opens to admit him. It is only one flight of stairs to his floor, but Steve doesn’t feel like walking. He needs to eat very soon. An assignment- a part of Steve still balks at calling it a mission- will burn through his energy faster than he expects, every single time.

“The shower is on at one hundred ten degrees.” JARVIS informs him as Steve stoops to pick up his shield. It was abandoned at the living room couch once the AI reported Bucky was awake and throwing up.

“Thanks, JARVIS.” Steve’s voice is muffled from trying to pull his suit off. Stupid thing always clings to him if he has sweat through his shirt. Maybe he should complain to Tony about it. 

JARVIS is a computer program at heart but Steve can’t help but think of the AI as some kind of guardian. It is telling to Tony’s personality that he created the most humanoid AI the world has ever seen. 

Peeling off the pants, undershirt, and socks, Steve leaves them in a pile on the floor. His boots scatter dried mud over his bedroom. Whatever. Gloves land in his boots, his helmet next to them. A welcoming billow of steam greets Steve when he opens the door to the bathroom.

He is not ashamed to admit that he groans when he first steps into the shower. Running around in a muddy suit isn’t anyone’s idea of fun, and four hours of systematically clearing out an empty Hydra base did not improve the miserable chill seeping into his clothes.

Wet socks are a terrible mood killer.

Steve lets the hot water rush over his body for a while longer until he feels ready to scrub off the musty, earthy smell off his skin. Shampoo bottle in one hand, Steve uses the other to cover himself in suds that smell of tea tree oil. Thanks to super senses, he can smell his own body odor with unnecessary sensitivity. A clean, sharp scent like tea tree helps him deal with post-exercise smell.

At least Steve feels real today. Sometimes paying too much attention to his own body leaves him distant and numb, leaving him to either wander around to try and find an activity to distract him or to hit the gym until his body hurts and aches.

The first night Steve spent in his new, serum-enhanced body was weird. Lying in a cot alone, able to listen to every sound, every rustle. He felt ready to drift away. The weird disconnect persists, but it is infrequent enough- yet still common enough- that Steve knows how to get over it.

Steve eases the temperature from hot to warm, and then to cool. He wastes no time shampooing his hair before rinsing off all of the soap suds down the drain. As wonderful as the hot water is against his skin, the cool water will keep him awake a little better. And maybe once Natasha had said something about it being better for his hair and skin?

Not that Steve needs (or wants) to worry about his appearance, but it has become a habit once he tried it.

He should check on her. A nasty explosion from a vault knocked Nat out for a few moments, then she couldn’t move because she was in immense pain. Steve covered for her until Tony confirmed the base was empty, and checked for other latent traps. She set off the only explosion in the building. It was plain luck that the damage was only a few ribs where the vault door hit her. Nothing lethal within a few hours. A hell of an injury, sure. But survivable.

She was pissed to find that the Hydra base had more similarities to an overlooked warehouse than anything important. Well- as annoyed as she could be after Steve gave her half of a hydrocodone dose to keep her somewhat comfortable. Natasha is surprisingly hostile and snappy when she is in immense pain. Tony refused engage her even when her comments were a little too sharp. 

Steve reflects on how far the team has come when they can recognize abnormal behavior, and then dismiss it to forgive it. 

Realizing he distracted himself and wasted more water than was necessary, Steve shuts off the shower before stepping out to dry off with a large towel. The temperature in his room is pleasant- Steve suspects JARVIS adjusted the temperature to keep him comfortable. He pulls on his underwear and sweatpants, then rubs his hair with the towel one last time before finding a suitable t-shirt. 

On his way out his bedroom, Steve catches sight of his suit creating a puddle on the floor. He sighs. Turning back into the bathroom, he fills the tub up with hot water and then tosses the suit into it. A few more hours soaking in water won’t kill it, not when he can spend some time with Nat first.

“Natasha isn’t in the medical wing, is she?”

“Correct, Captain Rogers. She is her living room with Ms. Hill.”

Good. Time to see how Nat is doing.

This time he walks down two flights of stairs to Nat’s floor, relishing the soothing stretch of sore muscles eased by a hot shower. The slightest twinge of fatigue pulls, but not enough to concern him. Steve still takes the steps slowly, a lifetime’s worth of caution keeping him from tripping down the stair due to bad joints or asthma winding him if he moved too quickly. 

The amount of luck and coincidence needed to get him here today was more than Steve cared to consider.

Her door is probably unlocked for him. Steve knocks as a formality.

Natasha’s floor is sleek and modern, but with a generous amount of blankets and homely decorations. Steve already knows with the reflections of the metal appliances, polished steel counters, and tile that looks like it is perpetually wet with shine, Natasha can see movement or shadow from almost every corner of the floor. Where she couldn’t see around corners, a decorative mirror hangs on the wall at the perfect angle.

That kind of surveillance would worsen Steve’s paranoia, yet it eases Nat’s to bearable levels. It does not escape his notice, either, that all of the knick knacks in her apartment are artfully placed to be within reach in a few steps. All are heavy enough to be used as a lethal projectile. 

Maria opens the door to reveal Natasha lying on the floor of her living room. Maria gestures to Steve to come at the same time Natasha catches sight of him. All she is wearing is a bra and a pair of sweatpants with three cats resting on her stomach.

“Come on, Steve. I’m not naked, I’ve got like… three cats on.” Natasha slurs, rolling her head over to look at him just as he starts to back out of her room. Baffled at her response, he turns to Maria, who shrugs her shoulders with a rare delighted grin.

The situation is even more amusing because Maria wears one of her numerous navy business dresses, her minimalistic necklace and bracelet elegant and professional. She has her heels kicked off near Steve’s feet, hinting that she came straight from doing whatever she does for Stark Industries to check on Nat. 

“I didn’t think they had pain killers strong enough to get her loopy.” Steve says, trying to hide a smile. (But really, Nat never willingly takes pain medication if she can help it.)  “How are your ribs?”

Natasha stares up at the ceiling, face scrunching up as she tries to think. “Uhh… I think they’re gone? So… good?” One of the cats- Steve can’t tell which one- moves, and all the blood drains from her face as she makes a sound between a gasp and a groan.

Quickly, Steve scoops up the cat and relocates it to the couch. Ugly bruises blanket almost the entirety of Natasha’s right rib cage and sweeps over her stomach. He winces in sympathy. It looks like she’s broken quite a few.

“The doctors said she had a little internal bleeding, but it healed up on it’s own. Three ribs are fractured.”  Maria jumps in to explain since it is clear Natasha isn’t in the right state of mind to relay information. “She just needs lots of rest.” Maria fixes a glare at her. A perfect, take-no-shit kind of glare.

Natasha considers this.

“I don’t like resting.” She mutters, petulantly, like a child. Her red hair is spread out in a fan on the hardwood floor, contrasting with her pale skin that glistens with a light sheen of sweat.

“You broke your ribs.” Maria rolls her eyes, but her smile softens her tone. 

“ _ I _ didn’t break them... so it’s not my fault.”

“No, but they’re still broken.” Steve replies, amused by her jumps in logic. They must have given her some nice painkillers. Broken ribs are painful as all hell. Natasha’s usual pattern of behavior when dealing with an injury is isolation and alcohol, not much else. She would never admit that doctors and hospitals still have an effect on her. 

“Hm…. where’s… Clint?” Natasha asks between shallow breaths to avoid aggravating her ribs. 

“He went to visit his kids.”

“Oh…” A pause. “I think... I knew that?”

Steve chuckles. “Yes, he left a few days ago.” 

“Let’s watch a movie, Nat. Do you need help getting up?”

“Yes. Nothing funny. If I laugh...I’m going to pass out.”

“Nature documentary?” Steve offers, holding out his hands. Nat brushes the cats off her with gentle nudges. 

“Don’t take advantage of me,” grumbles Natasha when she accepts Steve’s hands to sit up. Once he has a good grip on her, he pulls her to her feet quickly to get it over with before she has a chance to tense up in pain.

Steve doesn’t know what Nat is talking about, but assures her she’s not. She wobbles to the couch with his help. It takes a few moment of her hissing in pain between her teeth before she is comfortably seated. Nat has a shamefully fluffy blanket on the couch that Steve uses to tuck her in to keep her warm.

The TV flickers to life, pulling up an episode of  _ Life _ . Nature documentaries are simple and mindless, but also calming. Steve knows Nat gets nightmares on painkillers, so perhaps this will help keep her nightmares mild. 

\-- --- --

She likes nature documentaries, even if she can’t really pay attention to the screen. At least the colors are vibrant and the narrator’s voice is soothing. Something about frogs, maybe?

Her phone buzzes. She makes grabby-hands at it until Steve leans over and picks it up from the coffee table. He does have nice musculature. Steve is nice on the eyes. Not that dangerous handsome, but that earnest, wholehearted good man kind of looks.

It takes two tries but she puts her long code in eventually.

A black screen pops up, then changes.There is a deer picking around the foliage. Natasha stares at the screen, trying to decide why on earth she is watching a deer eat leaves.

“JARVIS, what is this?” Do her words sound slurred? They sound fuzzy to her own ears.

“That is the video feed from one of your surveillance cameras on a Hydra base.”

A chuckles escapes when her drugged up brain makes the jump to a hydra deer spy- she regrets it within an instant when her ribs shoot agony through her side.

“Ow.”

“Natasha?”

“Hydra deer.”

“... what?” Steve’s tone says he can’t decide if he is concerned or amused. 

“Hydra deers.” She repeats, but then she get a better idea. “Hydra moose? No- Hydra meese?”

“Don’t hurt yourself.” Steve’s voice laughs, loud and pure. He has a nice laugh. It is a shame he doesn’t enjoy himself anymore. Too sad. It’s like seeing a sad golden retriever-

Steve should  _ totally  _ get a golden retriever. No, wait. Clint has Lucky. Have Steve walk Lucky outside for the paparazzi to drool over and stop bugging him for a little bit. 

“Don’t mock me... when I’m in pain.”

“The painkillers are too blame, Tash.”

She is self-aware enough to feel her cheeks turn red. Why is Maria here? Just fantastic. Nat groans into the couch cushion for way longer than necessary, just to make an obnoxious noise.

Someone draps the blanket back over her. She must be cold, because this feels a lot better.

“What do you want to eat?” Maria asks just because she feels bad.

“Not hungry.” She grumbles, still hiding her face into the couch. The pressure against her broken ribs is a dull ache. At least she can get away with sleeping like this if she wanted.

“I can order that broccoli cheddar soup from Panera for you.”

“Mmm… sure.” Damn people knowing what she likes to eat. A little flicker of unease flashes through her chest. Favorite food is a personal thing. Why does she allow them to know this kind of information?

Don’t be stupid, Natasha tells herself. They’re friends. Stupid, drugged up brain.

“What half of the menu would you like me to order?”

It takes Natasha a few moments for it to click. Maria is teasing Steve about his outrageous appetite. 

“Every other item.” Steve deadpans. It isn’t even clever, but Nat snorts to herself anyways. Maybe Maria will do exactly what he says and it won’t take nearly as long for him to eat all that food than they would all think.

She passes out before Maria finishes calling in the order.  

\-- --- --

The Soldier heads back to bed after sitting in the bathroom longer than protocol would dictate. He doesn’t know what else to do. His balance is off by the slightest degree, which irritates him more than anything; the carpet floor dips just enough under his feet for him to be uncertain and slow. Goddamn medication.

The sheets are blissfully cool against his skin. He relishes the sensation, appreciative that coolness isn’t a biting cold and he’s not overheating in his uniform in a desert.

He tries to sleep, but he can’t get it out of his head.

He wants to sleep.

Just sleep, fucking hell.

[... do you really… remember that kind of thing?] He has to ask, damn it.

_ [Yes.] _

Oh.

That’s… he doesn’t have a word for it. He tries to determine how he feels about this information. Clearly, they are not above sabotaging him… but the Soldier understands what they were trying to accomplish- in a skewed, personal gain way. 

_ [Does it bother you?]  _ They are infuriatingly calm.

[Of course it fucking bothers me!] He snaps, riled up. They weather his annoyance with almost limitless impatience. Almost limitless. He doesn’t want to push back too hard in case they pull another goddamn memory reveal and sideswipe him.

_ [What about it bothers you?]  _ A mocking, mildly-phrased question.

The Soldier answers with a wordless snarl. Like he would tell them what scares him. He’s not fucking stupid. It is no different from interacting with a handler. 

[ _ I'm not a handler. _ ] They are… upset? No, not the right word. Not disappointed, either. He clenches his jaw tight, frustrated with his inability to name the emotion. It is easier to predict mood when he has someone to look at.

[ _ I’m not a handler, _ ] they repeat, tone dangerously neutral. [ _ I do not appreciate the comparison. _ ]

That gives him pause.

[I know that. I’m-] He hesitates, thinking. [That is not what I fully meant.]

He falls silent, uneasy.

[Why?]

This gives them pause. [ _ What do you mean by ‘why’? _ ]

[Why do you remember?]

[ _ Because- _ ]

[ _ No, I- _ ] They start again, flustered, but break off.

[ _ I… just do. _ ]

He shouldn’t take solace in the fact that they don’t know why they remember unnecessary information, but he does. It takes away some of the power disparity to know that they aren’t sure what is going on, either.

\-- --- --

_ “Soldier.”  _

_ Lukin’s voice, smooth and serious. He drops his gaze, a tremor running down his spine. Oh, no- Lukin walks closer. No, please- _

_ “Have you been causing trouble?” _

**_[Fuck! Why the fuck do you always cause so many fucking problems? Now Lukin’s here_ ** **-]**

[Be quiet; you’re not helping!]

_ The Soldier snarls- _

_ He has to answer- the words stick in his throat, suffocating.  _

_ “Y-yes, sir.” He forces out, hunched over himself. He really hates this- god, he hates it so much-  _

[You know this has to happen. You know what you have to do to avoid pissing Lukin off-]

_ The tech he startled gestures to something, calm again now that Lukin is present. He didn't mean to-  a defensive growl when the tech attempted to push him when he was already following orders. _

_ “Why?” Lukin asks, and he can hear Lukin picking something up from the tray- _

_ He almost crumples to the floor right then and there. Fear leaves him paralyzed, and he can’t hide the strained gasp he makes. His hand is shaking, so he tightens his grip on the exam table’s edge- _

_ “Soldier.” Lukin’s tone is firm. _

_ He forces himself to make eye contact for the briefest moment, meeting unreadable brown eyes. His gaze darts to the syringe and a vial of something Lukin places down next to him. The glass clinks against the cold metal- _

_ “Why are you not being obedient?” _

_ He doesn’t know! It’s not, just- he doesn’t like this, but he’s not allowed to not like things- _

[Answer him, quickly!]

_ “I-I don’t k-know, sir.” _

_ “Hmm…” Lukin looks over the report on the clipboard, addressing the technician. “I can see notation that the field handler felt that the Soldier was unnecessarily verbal, but use of personal pronouns as well?” _

_ Oh, god- he didn’t mean- _

**_[Fucking- what the HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?! YOU’RE NOT FOLLOWING PROTOCOL, YOU PIECE OF SHIT-]_ **

[Mind yourself! You’ve already messed up a few times; Lukin is not going to be generous-]

_ “Soldier,” Lukin turns back to him, demanding. “You’re malfunctioning. Why?” _

_ “Unknown, s-sir.” He replies, panicked. He’s not trying to do anything wrong- what did the field handler report? The mission went well-? _

**_[Of course it went well! It was fucking completed ahead of schedule, with no problems at all- the worthless field handler had no fucking room to complain about my work-]_ **

[Enough!]

_ “You don’t know.” Lukin’s not asking; that’s worse.  _

_ That means he should know- there must be something that happened to explain this breakdown in conditioning- _

_ He’s trying to think, frantic- _

[Nothing happened! Nothing out of the ordinary. What does the report say?]

_ He can’t see the report from here- not without making it obvious that he’s grabbing at answers. _

_ “N-no, sir.” He tries to take a breath that doesn’t catch in his throat, anything to try and slow this descent into disobedience. It’s inevitable-  _

_ Lukin takes off his lab coat and folds it over the chair- _

**_[Fucking hell]-_ **

_ He can’t- No, he’s not going to- he feels the Soldier pushing, wanting to meet Lukin with bared teeth- _

[Don’t you dare! Stand down, Soldier-]

_ The metal under his left hand gives under his fingers, buckling slightly as Lukin rolls up the sleeves of his sweater- _

_ “Look at me.” _

_ He tries not to flinch when Lukin picks up something else- _

_ It’s a pen light. _

**_[Fucking relax, would you?]_ ** _ The Soldier, amused, stops trying to gain control but hovers, tense and ready to fight. _

_ He doesn’t dare breathe as Lukin checks his eyes, a gentle nudge tilting his head back at a better angle. _

_ “Follow the pen with your eyes- don’t move your head.” _

_ Confused, he does as asked. It’s… easy. Lukin’s expression is one of focus, not one of anger or disappointment. What’s going on? _

_ Lukin asks him to touch his chin to his chest, look over each shoulder, and extend his neck backwards as far as possible. It doesn’t… hurt. His confusion grows. _

_ “Slight limitation of subject’s lateral neck rotation, but expected.” Lukin says, and it takes a moment for him to realize that Lukin is speaking to the tech. He’s not sure what that means, but it’s normal…? _

_ “Settle,” Lukin orders when he jumps at the touch of hands on either side of his neck. _

_ “Exaggerated startle reflex.”  _

_ Lukin presses on attachment points and lingers over tense, knotted muscles. It’s easier to breathe, so he forces himself to relax. _

_ The examination moves to the front of his neck. Lukin’s fingers follow his right clavicle along, across the top of the sternum, to the seam of metal and skin. Even the Soldier is curious now, calm. _

_ “So far, no sign of injury.” _

_ He’s looking for injuries?  _

_ He’s not injured- the mission did not involve hand-to-hand combat. _

**_[And if it did, I wouldn’t have gotten the body seriously injured]. The Soldier grumbles, insulted._ **

[Yes, yes. We know.]

_ Twitching when Lukin finds the over-sensitive scars along his left shoulder, he allows Lukin to check the mobility of his left arm. The plates resists as Lukin tries to move them, checking for loose or ill-fitting ones. They slide over each other without scraping. _

_ Lukin is looking for something. _

_ “Prosthetic is in working condition, no clear sign of damage.” _

_ The tech takes notes. _

_ He shivers when Lukin’s warm hands drop to his chest. His handler pushes on each individual rib, thorough. No pain, either. _

_ “No subluxation or fractured ribs detected,” reports Lukin. A hand on his shoulder pushes him so he’s lying down. A flash of unease runs through him, and he closes his eyes. The table is cold against his back. He can’t stop the shiver, skin prickling. _

_ Lukin prods his contracted abdominal muscles. “Relax them.” _

_ He exhales. The tension melts as he shifts on the exam table. The Soldier doesn’t like it when Lukin’s hands slide along his skin, too close. He stops the growl growing in his chest, silent. Opening his eyes a sliver, he can watch without staring, letting the Soldier monitor. _

_ His handler checks his internal organs by pressing on different parts of his abdomen, but nothing has yet to hurt- _

_ He gasps, sitting up when his handler undoes the button on the uniform pants- _

_ Lukin grabs the Soldier’s throat. He freezes- _

_ “ _ **_Lie down_ ** _.” Lukin snaps, shoving him down against the metal table- he goes because he was ordered, tension coiled tight in his body.  _

[It’s not like him!]  _ They argue, uncharacteristically startled. _ [He's never-]  _ They protest, horrified. _

**_[He’s not going to-]_ ** _ the Soldier snarls, ready to fight, building rage like a tide- covering the panic. _

_ No, please- _

_ He whines when Lukin picks up the syringe again- _

_ “Please!” He gasps, unable to stop himself from begging- _

[Don’t say another word!]

_ “Quiet.” Lukin finds a vein with practiced ease, and the needle slides into his arm- _

_ His protests die, chased away by the warmth rushing through him, flooding his mind with terrifying, addicting euphoria. It dulls the Soldier down to nothing, distancing the reasonable voice in his head to a faint whisper he can’t hear- _

_ Lukin only takes off the uniform pants to continue the exam, leaving him decent in his underwear. Heat rises in his face at his over-reaction. He can't stop himself from twitching as Lukin tests his range of motion. His handler checks the alignment of his pelvis, leaning his weight into the Soldier-  _

_ He would have fought against someone pinning him down, but he's having a hard time keeping himself from drifting… _

_ “Settle.”  _

_ His handler follows the muscles in his thighs down to his knees, touch clinical but with this drug in his veins, it's way too similar to- _

_ “Still no injuries.” Lukin reports, running his thumbs along side the Soldier’s tibias to check for tenderness. Nothing. If it was hurting, it wouldn't be now, not when Lukin gave him… gave him…? _

_ He pulls his foot away on instinct, the threat of damage serious with all the bones and nerves. They always go for the feet, then he can't walk and they punish him more- _

_ “Behave yourself.” Lukin corrects, but no punishment is forthcoming. He doesn’t understand. It doesn't make sense. He's not injured- nothing hurts from the mission. His left shoulder always aches and his spine flares with pain when he's forced into one position too long... everything hurts eventually- _

_ “I think the Soldier is overdue for a wipe; it's too reactive and aware.” _

_ No, please! _

_ He can't- please, it hurts so much- _

_ “Settle.” Lukin gathers equipment for an IV, picking the same tender spot he injected the…? _

_ “This failure in conditioning is on me. I was not attentive, and you will not suffer because of it.” _

_ What? _

_ Lukin’s voice distorts as liquid ice spreads through his veins- he shivers. _

_ “You will be unconscious before the procedure starts.” _

_ Dizzy, he struggles to sit up even with Lukin guiding him. The hop off the table to the floor proves even more challenging; his knees give out. He catches the table before he falls, thankfully. _

_ Generous, Lukin lets him gather his balance and strength for a few moments. The embarrassment is from the Soldier. He can't hear them anymore, yet the emotions filter through the fog regardless. _

_ He tries not to use Lukin for support, but the hand resting on his back keeps the floor from swaying underneath his feet. It's sickening how helpless he is when he's drugged. _

_ That is probably the point. _

_ He doesn’t dare hope that Lukin actually means that he’s not going to be aware for the wipe. Nothing he does slips Lukin’s notice. The body’s trembling is a sign of weakness. Maybe he does need to be reset- it’s not… good for him to act like this, right? _

_ The mission was completed this time, but if he were sent out right now to assassinate someone else, is he confident he could do it without distractions…? Not really? Not with the smells and flashes of past lives flashing through his head. Not with the voices in his head drawing him inwards like a stray to food, trying to decide if what he’s experiencing is good enough to risk the reward. They seem to know more than him; he is called the Soldier, the Asset, anything… but the one who embodies the Soldier’s fury is always ready to fight. The other one- the guardian, maybe- is like a handler, reasonable and focused on what he needs to do to be good. And he’s pretty sure there are others- _

_ It doesn’t make sense- it does, if he thinks about it. How he’s able to remember information and skills after wipes- _

_ He hates the chair so much- a low whimper escapes before he can stop it. Lukin holds out the bite guard. He takes it between his teeth, ragged gasps causing him to hesitate. _

_ “Shh, just a few more moments.” _

_ The tech types something into the computer and the machine locks his arms in- He looks up to his handler, eyes wide. He can't speak without spitting out the bite guard in his mouth- he knows he will not. _

_ “Here,” Lukin murmurs. His handler floods the IV with… with…? _

_ Another rush of dizziness, followed by darkness absorbing his vision. His head tilts back and- _

  1. \-- --- --



 

Sam’s phone rings at four o’clock in the morning. He glances at the clock as he rolls over to grab it from off the nightstand. Nothing but trouble happens at this hour of the night. 

A jolt of adrenaline wipes away all traces of sleep when Sam reads ‘Drew’ on the caller identification. He accepts the call.

“Hey, man. What’s up?” Sam picks up his discarded jeans from last night and wriggles into them. Whatever Drew is calling about, Sam would rather be dressed and presentable in public in case the young vet needs to let off some steam somewhere.

“ ‘m… s...sorry.” Drew’s voice is faint and his words slur together.  _ Shit.  _

“What are you sorry for, Drew?” Sam asks as he throws on a shirt, alarmed. He’s probably drunk, and Sam can’t trust a man’s judgment early morning if he’s intoxicated. The line is silent save for Drew’s heavy breathing.

“Drew, I need you to tell me what’s going on so I can help.” He prods, tone sharpening.

“... don’t want… help.” Drew mutters. “Sorry.”

Panic floods through him. 

“Drew, what's going on?” This conversation isn’t right- Sam has the sense that Drew is a threat to himself right now. “I’m worried you’re gonna do something that you’re going to regret.”

“...re...gret callin’… sorry, Sam… Not… your… fault.”

_ Fuck, fuck! _ Sam yanks on his shoes as he searches for his spare phone on the dresser. There it is! 

Sam watches himself dial 911 as he tries to coax Drew into coherence. His panic is muted,  a little trickle down his throat and chest as he rushes to his garage. He requests ambulance presence at Drew’s apartment. A Bluetooth earpiece transfers the 911 call so he can put the spare phone in his pocket.

“Drew, I want you to name three things you can see in the room with you.” Anything to derail Drew’s train of thought as Sam is en route. The adrenaline pulls Sam out from his body like he's flying, watching anti-air artillery rising up to meet him.

Cold fear tempers into omniscient awareness of his surroundings. The voice of the 911 operator in his ear confirms the location for the ambulance and asks him to stay on the line. Drew’s faint, slurred words  lists off a sink, toilet, and shower. 

The car’s engine rumbles around him- it’s not right. His wings should be at his back. There should be night vision warping the community into artificial green. The moon should cast the sand in a blanket of emerald-

_ Washington, D.C. March 27th, 2016. 0400. He is driving to Drew’s apartment, Building C, 8th floor, room C802. Bathroom. Potential risk for self injury. _ Sam recites in his head, bringing his focus back to the road.

“Drew, man. I’m on my way. Can you unlock the door for me?”

Drew is radio silent, the silence loud.

Sam jumps out of the car and locks it. He ignores the lights flashing behind him-

Up the stairs, two at a time. The burn in his thighs is nothing, not when he has a target area to reach before enemy radar picks them up- He breathes in through his nose, out through his mouth. Another flight of stairs. Sam scans each landing for threats, but the building is silent- there are no hostiles in the area.

It’s a cheap apartment complex. No scanner to exit the starwell. Directions mounted on the way lead Sam down the hallway ahead. The room is immediately on his right. 

The operator’s voice is jumbled, sharp. 

The door is locked- 

Sam kicks it open as someone approaches from behind, yelling. 

A cheap one room apartment. Four hundred square feet, maybe. The tv screen displays static. Closed door to his right- it has to be the bathroom. 

“Drew, it’s Sam.” He needs to announce his presence to avoid friendly fire- the door knob turns with him when Sam pushes on it.

Glass fragments on the floor. Drew sitting against the wall of the shower, phone next to him, dropped from his lax hand. 

Crimson drips from the young vet’s pale arm, slinking down the drain. 

He doesn’t have sterile gauze. A hand towel will have to do. Sam requested backup- he just have to get Drew back to a safe LZ for medical evac. He kicks away a bottle of alcohol when he steps into the shower.

“Drew, an ambulance is on the way, man.” Sam hears himself say without a waver in his voice. 

Apply pressure.

Sam wraps the towel around the cut and then uses one hand to hold it there and the other to compress the femoral artery.

“Oh, shit.” Someone else- Sam spares a second to turn around. Police officer. Non-threatening. 

Elevate the injury above the heart. 

An open pocket knife lays on the shower floor. Drew’s breathing is shallow and rapid. Shock. His eyes are almost closed; he’s not responsive.

Sam can smell alcohol on his breath. Drunk.

Crunching of glass. Voices. Blue gloves reach past Sam to take over. Someone puts a hand on his shoulder, guiding him away-

Oh-

EMTs.

Sam is just a civilian- this isn't an op. Drew is a soldier, but they are in America where ambulances can come when called without needing to worry about getting targeted.

“Sir-”

Sam blinks, feeling very far away from the EMT talking to him. He watches one of them pull the dog tags from under Drew’s blood-soaked shirt. An older man is wrapping Drew’s arm with white gauze and sterile pads. 

“I'm coming,” Sam's mouth says when Drew is being secured on a stretcher. “I work with the VA. I'm his peer support specialist.”

They let him climb into the ambulance with Drew. Oxygen tank, blood transfusion. Hyperventilation, hypotension, tachycardia. Intoxication.

He sits, quiet and out of the way, staring through the EMT’s blue gloves as they work to keep Drew alive.

Someone wipes the blood off of his hands so he doesn’t have to look at it anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm clearly not dead :P I just have a very busy life (like, amazing things happening kind of busy) but I haven't abandoned this fic for good! I just had loads of other things to focus on.
> 
> I hope you enjoy? If anyone still reads this anymore lol

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Expect sporadic updates, but don't fear that this fic will be abandoned. I have a plan. 
> 
> A slow plan, but a plan never the less.


End file.
